#Watering Globes UK

[ladymazzy]

Unconscious bias training is ‘nonsense’, says outgoing race relations chair

From the article;

'In a wide-ranging interview, the sociologist and cultural activist said he was proud of the role that his institute had played in putting institutional racism on the national agenda several decades ago, but was dismayed at the rise of terms such as unconscious bias.

“We made arguments to the state even when we’re on platforms alongside them saying this was nonsense. It’s racism we want to talk about, it’s systemic behaviour we want to talk about, institutionalised racism we want to talk about, not unconscious bias or racial awareness,” Prescod said. “It’s the stuff that kills that we want to talk about, the stuff that stunts lives that we want to talk about, the stuff that deforms lives that we want to talk about.”

The outgoing chair pointed to the increasing concern of a school-to-prison pipeline in the UK, where young minority ethnic children excluded from schools are forced into pupil referral units where they are groomed by criminal gangs – a clear example of systemic racism, he claims. “To talk about unconscious biases is an obvious sidestepping of the matter. And it’s also wanting to let people off,” Prescod said.

[shiftythrifting]

I haven't taken this at a strange angle, Henry the Eighth really is jammed up against the top of the water globe and squashed into a funny shape. A very strange royal souvenir.

Found in the Barnados charity shop in Roborough, in Devon, UK.

[russellius]

While British success stories in Formula 1 tend to centre around Lewis Hamilton – as well they should, he’s a legend – George Russell has quietly been making a serious name for himself. At a fresh-faced 26 years old, he’s one of the younger racers on the grid and, when we caught up with him ahead of the Hungarian Grand Prix back in the summer, was still revelling in the best season of his career. So, how was he finding the season so far?

“It’s been… I wouldn’t say a rollercoaster, but it’s been one that we’ve been climbing,” says Russell. “At the start we were at the bottom of the mountain and been steadily getting closer to the top. There’s so much excitement and motivation when you’re on a team like this, like we have a visible return on everything we’ve been putting in, that momentum we’ve been building up.”

We were talking shortly after his second F1 victory in Austria, which was a bit of a hairy one. After spending most of the race in third – still a respectable podium finish – Lando Norris and Max Verstappen ahead of him got a little too close to one another, crashing to take them both out the race. It was a far cry from Russell’s incredibly convincing first win. But was there a difference to him?

“Each win is incomparable. Every race is a completely different scenario. My first, in Brazil, was where I was ahead every lap. I’d done fantastically the day before and the pressure was there. Near the end I had Lewis on my tail and it was a relief to get across that finish line. In Austria I was happy to be in third – and then it all kicked off ahead and the opportunity arose. Every race is different and you never really know how it’s going to go, even when you’re behind the wheel.”

With that kind of uncertainty, it has to be hard to prepare yourself for racing at this level. There’s the danger of course, as that crash in Austria – and a multitude of other times – shows. But none of these guys would be racing if that put them off. Instead, we were more interested to find out of the pressure ever got to him – and more importantly, what Russell did to cope with it.

“I’m a little obsessive. I try to make sure I’ve gone through all the preparation possible with my engineers, taken a look at last year’s data, gone over the car, the weather conditions, anything I feel I need to be looking for. Once I’ve ticked them all off, I’m at peace, mentally. I know I’m at my peak physical condition, I know every race is going to be tough. But there are 19 other drivers and hopefully they’ll find it tougher than I will. After that, what will happen, will happen, it’s out of your control.”

With that huge amount of pressure every single week, the intense training regime to stay in that physical condition and the sheer hectic nature of a globe-trotting racing competition, decompression seems like a necessity. Russell though seems to want to take decompressing very literally.

“I love being by the sea, so I’ve started free diving, which is a bit of a random hobby, but when I’m out in the water I’m just so focused on my breathing, on being underwater that I just disconnect from the world. Once beneath the sea, down there with the fish and coral, you’re not thinking about anything else – except having enough breath to get back to the top!”

Russell isn’t the only British racing legend around. We’ve had a long, illustrious line of champions of which Hamilton is only the latest and Russell could potentially be next. For Russell, there’s something in the inspiration of champions of old, and having seven of the ten Formula 1 teams based in the UK helps. But for him, the key to British racing success is British racing green grass roots.

“I remember racing with Lando [Norris] and Alex [Albon], and alongside other racers who didn’t make it to Formula 1 but have made professional racing careers. There’s definitely something about the grass roots level here that works. But it needs to stay at that level. This isn’t the most economical sport in the world, so we need to make sure that we can give kids that don’t have the opportunity otherwise the funding they need to get behind the wheel and try go-karting.”

That said, go-karting is never going to be cheap for most would-be podium contenders, and whether it’s that or sheer space, it’s an opportunity sadly few kids have. E-sports on the other hand, is different.

“Simulators have advanced so much now. The Formula 1 game is fantastic and there should be ways we can identify talent sooner, instead of just having financial backing to push you through the ranks.”

Whether coming from the classic karting angle or from killing it online with photorealistic driving games, kids are going to need to have to contend with one of the most intensely competitive sports in the world – if not the most. According to Russell though, they shouldn’t be afraid of making mistakes; quite the opposite.

“The one piece of advice that I try to embrace myself is: don’t be afraid to fail. The times I’ve failed have been the times I’ve progressed the most, the times I’ve really pushed my limited. It doesn’t matter what you do, failure is necessary. It’s how we grow, how we learn about ourselves. There’s so much pressure not to let people down, especially with younger people, but you don’t want to go through life never making a mistake or knowing where your ceiling is.”

And any advice for those of us not thinking of a career in racing? Even shaving a few seconds off a track day would help for a few more bragging rights.

“No matter what you’re driving, stay relaxed. I’ve driven with people that have never been on a track before. They tense up, hunch over and it makes everything erratic. Smooth is fast, smooth with the steering, throttle and brake. It’s not necessarily how we drive in Formula 1, but if you want to speed up on a track day, stay relaxed.”

Obviously, it’s not lost on Russell just how many kids and F1 fans alike look up to him as a sportsman. He’s young, he’s hungry and his experience is starting to pay off. But for Russell, there are other sportspeople in other sports – and one in his own who I’m sure you can guess – that he looks up to.

“I have a huge amount of respect for [Cristiano] Ronaldo. He’s without a doubt the leader in his field. The same with [Novak] Djokovic, they’re fighters that push their physical performance. Then there’s Lewis [Hamilton], obviously. He puts his platform to great use and I admire him for that as much as his wins and what he’s doing off the track. I hope to be one of those leaders in years to come.”

Now he may well get a chance as Lewis will, in 2025, be moving from Mercedes as Russell’s teammate over to Ferrari. It’s a bold move, but on the other hand it means that Russell will soon be able to race his former teammate as an actual rival. Will that be weird?

“He’ll be wearing a different suit, but I’ll still recognise him! We’re at different stages in our career but we have massive respect for one another. For now, I’ll see him on the track.”

Speaking about wearing things, what watches have been on his wrist?

“I wear a lot of watches, actually. Right now, it’s the Ingenieur! I wore it for the first time at Wimbledon when it was still super fresh. I’ve also got my annual calendar and Top Gun back home. I like my team watch during race weekends to go with my suit, I wore it when I was on the podium in Austria. It fits so well.”

[umgeorge]

The Pressure of the Podium: Interview With George Russell

While British success stories in Formula 1 tend to centre around Lewis Hamilton-as well they should; he's a legend-George Russell has quietly been making a serious name for himself. At a fresh-faced 26 years old, he’s one of the younger racers on the grid and, when we caught up with him ahead of the Hungarian Grand Prix back in the summer, was still revelling in the best season of his career. So, how was he finding the season so far? "Its been... I wouldn't say a rollercoaster, but it's been one that we've been climbing," says Russell. "At the start we were at the bottom of the mountain and been steadily getting closer to the top. There's so much excitement and motivation when you're on a team like this, like we have a visible return on everything we've been putting in, that momentum we've been building up."

We were talking shortly after his second F1 victory in Austria, which was a bit of a hairy one. After spending most of the race in third, still a respectable podium finish, Lando Norris and Max Verstappen ahead of him got a little too close to one another, crashing to take them both out the race. It was a far cry from Russell's incredibly convincing first win. But was there a difference to him? "Each win is incomparable. Every race is a completely different scenario. My first, in Brazil, was where I was ahead every lap. I'd done fantastically the day before and the pressure was there. Near the end I had Lewis on my tail and it was a relief to get across that finish line. In Austria I was happy to be in third, and then it all kicked off ahead and the opportunity arose. Every race is different and you never really know how it's going to go, even when you're behind the wheel." With that kind of uncertainty, it has to be hard to prepare yourself for racing at this level. There's the danger, of course, as that crash in Austria and a multitude of other times shows, but none of these guys would be racing if that put them off. Instead, we were more interested to find out if the pressure ever got to him - and, more importantly, what Russell did to cope with it.

"I'm a little obsessive. I try to make sure I've gone through all the preparation possible with my engineers, taken a look at last year's data, gone over the car, the weather conditions; anything I feel I need to be looking for. Once I've ticked them all off I'm at peace, mentally. I know I'm at my peak physical condition. I know every race is going to be tough. But there are nineteen other drivers and hopefully they'll find it tougher than I will. After that, what will happen, will happen. It's out of your control." With that huge amount of pressure every single week, the intense training regime to stay in that physical condition, and the sheer hectic nature of a globe-trotting racing competition, decompression seems like a necessity. Russell, though, seems to want to take decompressing very literally.

"I love being by the sea so I've started free diving, which is a bit of a random hobby, but when I'm out in the water I'm just so focused on my breathing, on being underwater, that I just disconnect from the world. Once beneath the sea, down there with the fish and coral, you're not thinking about anything else except having enough breath to get back to the top!" Russell isn't the only British racing legend around. We've had a long, illustrious line of champions of which Hamilton is only the latest and Russell could potentially be next. For Russell, there's something in the inspiration of champions of old, and having seven of the ten Formula 1 teams based in the UK helps. But for him, the key to British racing success is British racing's green grass roots.

"I remember racing with Lando and Alex, and alongside other racers who didn't make it to Formula 1 but have made professional racing careers. There's definitely something about the grass roots level here that works. But it needs to stay at that level. This isn't the most economical sport in the world, so we need to make sure that we can give kids that don't have the opportunity, otherwise, the funding they need to get behind the wheel and try go-karting." That said, go-karting is never going to be cheap for most would-be podium contenders, and whether it's that or sheer pace, it's an opportunity sadly few kids have. E-sports, on the other hand, is different. "Simulators have advanced so much now. The Formula 1 game is fantastic and there should be ways we can identify talent sooner, instead of just having financial backing to push you through the ranks."

Whether coming from the classic karting angle or from killing it online with photorealistic driving games, kids are going to need to have to contend with one of the most intensely competitive sports in the world - if not the most. According to Russell, though, they shouldn't be afraid of making mistakes; quite the opposite. "The one piece of advice that I try to embrace, myself, is: don’t be afraid to fail. The times I've failed have been the times I've progressed the most, the times I've really pushed my limits. It doesn't matter what you do; failure is necessary. It's how we grow, how we learn about ourselves. There's so much pressure not to let people down, especially with younger people, but you don't want to go through life never making a mistake or knowing where your ceiling is."

And any advice for those of us not thinking of a career in racing? Even shaving a few seconds off a track day would help for a few more bragging rights. "No matter what you're driving, stay relaxed. I've driven with people that have never been on a track before. They tense up, hunch over, and it makes everything erratic. Smooth is fast - smooth with the steering, throttle, and brake. It's not necessarily how we drive in Formula 1, but if you want to speed up on a track day, stay relaxed." Obviously, it’s not lost on Russell just how many kids and F1 fans alike look up to him as a sportsman. He's young, he's hungry, and his experience is starting to pay off. But for Russell, there are other sportspeople in other sports, and one in his own who I'm sure you can guess, that he looks up to.

"I have a huge amount of respect for Ronaldo. He's without a doubt the leader in his field. The same with Djokovic - they're fighters that push their physical performance. Then there's Lewis, obviously. He puts his platform to great use and I admire him for that as much as his wins and what he's doing off the track. I hope to be one of those leaders in years to come." Now he may well get a chance as Lewis will, in 2025, be moving from Mercedes, as Russell's teammate, over to Ferrari. It's a bold move, but on the other hand it means that Russell will soon be able to race his former teammate as an actual rival. Will that be weird? "He'll be wearing a different suit, but I'll still recognise him! We're at different stages in our career, but we have massive respect for one another. For now, I'll see him on the track."

[sophie1973]

Let me kiss and make it better

A little Birthday fic written for my darling Kim @kj-bee ❤️(2.9k of fluff)

Can be read on AO3 or under the cut

The atmosphere inside the O2 Arena is electric, with anticipation hanging in the air as fans from around the globe fill the stands, waving flags and chanting. The field, a flawless expanse of green, awaits the start of one of the most eagerly anticipated matches of the World Cup. 

It's the quarter-finals, and the UK is set to face off against the US.

Alex is doing some last-minute stretching while half-listening to his teammates' banter. His gaze flickers discreetly to the opposing team—more specifically, to their captain.

Henry Fox.

This isn't Alex's first encounter with Henry on the field—not by a long shot. Henry is an incredible player, and Alex's competitive spirit thrives on the challenge of having such a formidable opponent. 

He just wishes Henry weren't so distracting.

He's half-tempted to draft a strongly worded letter to FIFA about it. Because seriously—those thighs in those shorts? It's obscene. Bordering on illegal. Fucking Criminal.

The teams start to line up, and Alex jogs on the field, meeting Henry at the center circle. The referee, holding the match ball, stands between them, and Henry extends his hand for Alex to shake, a mischievous glint in his blue eyes and a playful grin on his lips.

“Ready to get your ass kicked, Fox?” Alex asks good-naturedly, and Henry shakes his head, chuckling.

“Famous last words, darling.”

The referee goes over the rules, emphasizing fair play, while the captains nod in acknowledgment. Alex, having heard it all countless times before, instead focuses on how the blue of his football jersey enhances Henry’s azure eyes, or the sheen of sweat over Henry's upper lip and the beauty mark nearby. Alex briefly wonders how much chaos it would cause if he leaned in for a kiss.

He really needs to get it together.

A few lewd whistles from the crowd punctuate their handshake. The press and fans have speculated about the nature of their relationship for years. Some days, they’re painted as bitter rivals; other times, rumors swirl of them being secret lovers—just because they’ve been spotted laughing and sharing a drink at events.

Apparently, simply being friends who enjoy each other’s company is too dull for the public imagination.

The shrill blast of whistles pierces the air, signaling the start of the football match and sending a wave of excitement through the packed stadium. Alex catches Henry's eye across the field as players swiftly take their positions. With a subtle, confident smirk, Alex delivers a playful wink. The gesture has its intended effect; a soft blush blooms across Henry's fair cheeks, visible even from a distance. Inwardly pleased with this small victory, Alex's chest swells with pride as the match begins in earnest.

The first quarter-hour unfolds like a choreographed dance, with both teams testing the waters with cautious passes and strategic positioning. The cacophony of cheers from the stands fades into a distant hum as Alex's mind whirs, plotting the perfect strategy to breach their opponents' stubborn defenses.

Suddenly, an opening presents itself. Spencer executes a brilliant maneuver, and the ball reaches Alex's feet. In an instant, he's off, a blur of motion as he weaves through the opposition's defensive line. He darts past Henry, their eyes meeting for a split second, charged with competitive energy. Alex pushes on, his legs pumping furiously as he races towards the goal.

The next minute, Alex finds himself flat on his back, the lush grass cushioning his fall. A searing pain explodes from his ankle, radiating up his leg in agonizing waves. He clutches at it instinctively.

The piercing sound of the referee's whistle cuts through the sudden roar of the crowd. Through watering eyes, Alex sees the official reaching into his pocket, producing a yellow card, which he brandishes towards the English player who tackled him.

Alex hasn’t even seen him coming.

The game comes to a standstill as Alex’s teammates and some British players gather around him. He grimaces, watching his ankle begin to swell rapidly. A hand touches his shoulder, accompanied by a British voice asking, “Alex, are you alright?”

Lifting his head, Alex meets Henry's concerned blue eyes.

“Yeah, the game’s over for me. Fuck,” Alex mutters.

Henry’s expression falls, and Alex feels a jolt in his chest. Henry should be relieved by this turn of events, not upset. Losing their captain and one of their best players—his coach's words, not Alex’s—is a significant blow to the U.S. team.

“I called for a gurney,” Spencer interjects, and Alex nods, a heavy sigh escaping him. He tries to focus on the throbbing pain in his ankle rather than the crushing disappointment of seeing things coming to an abrupt end for him. He had been eager to win this game and lead his team into the semifinals. They were supposed to face the Belgian Red Devils, and Alex, who had been friends with their captain Kevin for years, was looking forward to the match.

Now, even if his team manages to pull off a win—and Alex is convinced they can do it—he doubts he'll recover in time for the semi-finals in just three days. The realization hits him like a punch to the gut, and he struggles to maintain his composure as the reality of his situation sinks in.

Alex extends his hands to Liam, who grasps his arm firmly. With Spencer's assistance, they cautiously attempt to hoist Alex to his feet. The moment his injured foot grazes the ground, a sharp, unbearable pain shoots through his leg, and he lets out an involuntary cry.

“Where on earth is that gurney?” Spencer mutters in frustration. Alex shares his concern, desperately wanting to leave this fucking field and escape the prying eyes so he can indulge in a moment of self-pity in the privacy of the infirmary.

Before he can process what's happening, strong arms encircle him, and his feet leave the ground. Startled, he finds himself cradled against a firm chest, looking up into Henry's determined face.

"Enough of this," Henry says, his voice low and authoritative. "We're not waiting for the gurney."

Alex opens his mouth to protest, but the words die in his throat. Henry’s arms are secure around him, one supporting his back and the other carefully cradling his legs, mindful of the injured ankle. Despite the circumstances, Alex can't help but notice how effortlessly Henry seems to carry him. He also notices Henry still smells really good despite having run across a football field for the past twenty-five minutes.

A hush falls over the stadium as Henry strides purposefully towards the sidelines. Cameras flash, capturing this unexpected moment between the rival players. Alex can already imagine the headlines, but right now, he's too grateful for the relief from pain to care.

"Couldn't resist playing the knight in shining armor, could you?" Alex quips, his voice a mix of gratitude and exasperation

Henry's lips quirk into a mischievous smile. "I could always bend you over my shoulder instead if you'd prefer," he suggests, his tone playful.

Alex's mind stutters to a halt, fixating on the words 'bend' and 'over.' His imagination runs wild with far less innocent interpretations, none of which involve Henry’s shoulder. 

The momentary distraction from the pain is almost worth the mental whiplash.

Regaining his composure, Alex mutters, "You know this is going to set the rumor mill on fire, right?"

And Henry, the cheeky bastard, grins. “I’m very well aware of that, love.”

Alex tries—and fails spectacularly—to suppress a shiver at the endearment, earning a knowing smirk from the Brit.

"Oh, shut up," Alex grumbles, his cheeks flushing.

Henry's rich laughter fills the air, and Alex can practically see the social media storm brewing. Tomorrow's headlines are going to be relentless.

As Henry gently lowers Alex onto the infirmary bed, a doctor and nurse immediately spring into action. After a thorough examination, they declare his ankle sprained, not broken. Despite having suspected as much, Alex can't help but feel a wave of relief wash over him. The doctor, however, insists on precautionary X-rays at the hospital.

"I'm not going anywhere now," Alex protests. "I need to see how the game ends."

The doctor sighs, obviously accustomed to stubborn football players. "Very well, Mr. Claremont-Diaz, but I strongly advise you go first thing tomorrow morning."

Alex nods noncommittally, flashing a grateful smile at the nurse - her badge says her name is Kim -  who turns on the TV, allowing him to follow the match.

Henry lingers by the bedside, his face etched with concern. "I'm truly sorry about this, Alex," he says softly.

Alex attempts a casual shrug, wincing slightly. "Not your fault, sweetheart," he reassures, the endearment slipping out before he can catch it. The painkillers are starting to kick in, dulling the throbbing in his ankle and loosening his tongue. He finds himself fighting the urge to ask Henry to stay, to sit beside him and hold his hand. Not exactly the right time.

"Basil's reckless move caused this," Henry explains, his jaw tightening with frustration.

Alex blinks, momentarily distracted from his thoughts. "Hold up. His name is Basil? I got steamrolled by a guy named after an herb? What kind of fucking posh nonsense is this, Henry?"

A smile tugs at Henry's lips, breaking through his concern. "’Steamrolled’ might be a tad dramatic, but he certainly did a number on you."

Their eyes meet, and they exchange a smile. The spell is broken when one of Henry's teammates bursts through the door, looking exasperated.

"What the bloody hell are you doing, Henry? The entire team's waiting for you to resume the match!"

Henry's posture straightens, and his voice takes on a crisp, authoritative tone that sends a shiver down Alex's spine. "I'll be there momentarily," he says, the subtle rebuke clear in his words.

Alex finds it incredibly hot.

Turning back to Alex, Henry's expression softens, a mix of concern and reluctance in his eyes. "Duty calls. Are you certain you'll be alright?"

Alex can't help but roll his eyes, though there's no real annoyance behind it. “Yes, mom. It’s a sprained ankle, not the ebola virus. Go. You have a game to lose.”

A smile tugs at Henry’s lips.“I’ll see you after the game.”

Alex gestures at his leg. “I ain’t going anywhere, baby.”

The nurse's eyebrows shoot up at their exchange, her gaze darting between them with poorly concealed interest. Henry catches her look and clears his throat, a faint blush creeping up his neck. “Right. See you later, then.”

Alex grins. He has no doubt this exchange will be all over Twitter tomorrow.

                                                      🇬🇧 ⚽ 🇺🇸

As the final whistle blows, announcing Henry's team's victory, Alex finds himself oddly detached from the outcome. The events of the evening, coupled with the hazy effects of pain medication, have left him drained. All he can think about is the allure of home – a hot shower, a comfortable bed, and the promise of rest.

He drifts in and out of consciousness, the sounds of the post-game excitement a distant hum. When he finally forces his eyes open, he's greeted by the sight of Henry standing at the foot of the bed, showered, dressed, and holding a pair of crutches.

He’s a sight for sore eyes.

“Congrats on the win,” Alex says, rubbing at his eyes. “Guess you were the best.” 

Henry's lips quirk into a soft smile as he leans the crutches against a nearby wheelchair. He moves to perch on the edge of Alex's bed, close enough that Alex can smell his subtle, expensive cologne.

"Alex," Henry says, his voice gentle, "we both know the outcome might have been vastly different if you'd been on that field."

Despite his fatigue, Alex can't help but grin. "Learn to take a compliment, Fox," he retorts. "It's not often I stroke your ego; you should savor it."

Henry's mouth opens, then closes, as if he's weighing his words carefully. Something flickers in his eyes, but it's gone before Alex can decipher it.

"I'm taking you home," Henry announces instead, his tone brooking no argument.

Alex's eyebrows shoot up, a smirk playing on his lips. "My, my. Not even dinner first?”

Henry rolls his eyes, but there's a hint of amusement beneath his exasperation. "You're a menace, Claremont-Diaz, and you're in desperate need of a shower. So, you have two options: get your arse in that wheelchair and let me ensure you get home safely, or attempt to navigate the nearest tube station on those crutches. Your choice."

The authoritative tone in Henry's voice, now directed squarely at him, sends an unexpected thrill through Alex.

"I'm sure Liam or Spencer can take me home," he counters weakly, more out of habit than genuine protest.

"They came by earlier, but you were asleep," Henry explains. "I assured them I'd see you home safely, so they've left. They'll check on you tomorrow."

Alex sighs dramatically, though internally, he's not as put out as he pretends to be. "Guess that leaves me no choice but to accept your gracious offer, then."

A slow, triumphant grin spreads across Henry's face. "Good boy," he says, his voice low and teasing.

The words hit Alex with unexpected force, sending a jolt of heat coursing through him. He bites his lower lip hard, barely suppressing a moan that threatens to escape. The sudden intensity of his reaction catches him off guard, leaving him breathless and slightly dizzy.

Acutely aware of the bustle of activity just outside the infirmary door, Alex forces himself to take a steadying breath. They've already provided enough fodder for gossip tonight; the last thing they need is for someone to overhear something that could be easily misconstrued.

"Right," he manages to croak out, his voice slightly strained. "Let's get this show on the road."

                                                              🇬🇧 ⚽ 🇺🇸

“Oh Christ…Alex!”

With a breathless laugh, Henry collapses onto Alex's chest, supporting himself on his forearms to avoid crushing him. Alex, however, wraps his arms around Henry's back, pulling their bodies flush together as they share a deep, lazy kiss, their bodies still trembling slightly from the force of their shared orgasm.

“Told you I could still rock your world, even with a sprained ankle,” Alex says, a self-satisfied grin spreading across his face. Henry responds with a soft, affectionate chuckle.

As they bask in the afterglow, Alex can't help but think that no amount of World Cup victories could ever compare to the rush of endorphins he experiences when having sex with Henry.

Henry reluctantly disentangles himself from Alex's embrace and heads to the bathroom. The sound of running water reaches Alex's ears as he takes his phone on the nightstand, idly scrolling through his social media feeds.

Returning with a damp washcloth, Henry begins to clean Alex. "Let me guess," he says, "my prince charming moment is trending online?"

Alex snorts. "What did you expect? You might as well have tattooed 'Property of Henry Fox' across my forehead."

Henry's eyes sparkle with mischief. "Now there's an idea."

"Keep dreaming, Fox," Alex retorts, rolling his eyes fondly.

"That's Fox-Claremont-Diaz to you, darling," Henry corrects him, leaning in for another kiss.

Alex takes his hand, pressing a soft kiss on the rose gold band that found its rightful place on Henry’s finger after the game. They returned to their apartment in London - a convenient haven when participating in the World Cup hosted in England. After a shower for Alex and a light snack, they fell back into bed, where Alex convinced Henry that a little post-game celebration was in order, even if one of the two parties involved had lost.

“So it’s celebratory sex for me and consolation sex for you?” Henry had  inquired with a raised eyebrow.

Alex had grinned and shrugged. “As long as we both get our happy ending, you can call it whatever you want, baby.”

Henry climbs back on the bed and snuggles with his husband. The atmosphere shifts subtly, becoming more soft and tender.

"Should we tell people?" Alex finally broaches the subject, and Henry exhales softly.

“I mean, I’m not opposed to it. Shaan and Zahra suggested we wait until after the Cup frenzy died, but…”

“Yeah, but now they are married too, so I don’t think we should listen to them anymore.”

Alex turns to face Henry, planting a soft kiss on his forehead. "I'm ready for the world to know you're mine," he whispers, and the radiant smile blooming on Henry's lips lets him know that the feeling is wholeheartedly mutual.

"How do you want to do it?" Alex asks. "Should we ease into it or go for a hard launch?"

Henry pretends to ponder, though Alex knows his answer. He shakes his head fondly as Henry gives him a brilliant smile.

"I want to break the internet."

***

A few days later, Alex's Instagram features a new post. 

The image captures their pajama-clad legs intertwined on the sofa, with David, Henry's dog, snoozing contently beside them. In the background, slightly out of focus but unmistakable, are their football jerseys draped over a chair, proudly displaying their names and numbers.

The caption reads: “I lost the World Cup, but I won at life.” 

Photo credit: Hubby @hgfoxofficial. 

[anadiasmount]

miami night's - christian pulisic x reader.

a sum of the story! : growing up to your parent's expectations, you were told what to do, how you were going to live your life. what happens when one night you break the rules for a man you just met?

warning this contains smut... so if you're a minor step away. it's my first time writing smut and genuinely something like this so please be kind! I'd also appreciate some feedback. enjoy! ❣❣

WC: 5.4K (18+ content)

Masterlist

Miami. Miami held a special place in you. You had been going there since childhood, all the way to now during your senior year in Uni. You enjoyed taking long walks by the shore, picking up small shells that you've gradually collected over the years, and taking pictures of the blue water and the to-die-for sunsets. It is where you've had a near-death experience by almost drowning, but also special memories like going for boat rides and surfing.

You had stayed in the States for your first two years of Uni studying to become a fine architect like your dad. It wasn't up to you, you had to follow his footsteps or you'd be a dishonor to the family. Your family went decades upon decades as architects, building and making some fine homes, buildings, and businesses. You didn't want to do that though, you wished and prayed that one day they’d realize how hard the pressure was to live up to the last name.

You had two older brothers, they have their families and are known quite around for making their work be known, but you, you weren't near their level. Mostly because part of you loved to make things harder for them. You just wanted to go out and live life how you dreamed. Due to your family’s name and reputation, you became such an introverted person. No matter how hard you tried to be “different”, they wouldn't find it professional of you.

You wanted the late-night drives with friends, travel around the globe, the skiing trip in Aspen, read books on a cold night as you felt the heat of a bonfire, and become a different person than the one they set you to be. You wanted freedom.

You had your group of friends that stuck with you since day one, two are engaged and going to start law school in the fall, your other girlfriend was going to begin her years in medical school in December, and one was going to become a professional dancer, and you well a said to be an architect. You wanted to become a journalist and have the world know of your passion to write a novel one day. No one knew of this, of course just your friends, if your family knew they freak.

During your third year of Uni, it took some convincing but you made the move to study abroad in the UK. Promising that you went for school, and school only. You loved it, the experiences of going out, looking at the different historical monuments, and taking holidays to Germany and Spain. You were living the life of the party, you could get used to that, but the States held a special place in your heart.

While in school in London, you made the decision to design and build out your dream home by the beach in Miami, a plan and idea only you knew. A house that you could visit and escape reality from. The dream home where you could wake up to smell the ocean breeze, tie up the beachy waves in your hair, and walk to shore to write your novel. It's what you had set to finish before working with your dad’s firm. A home one day you may take your kids to, for them to enjoy their time off. You invested and it was built secretly to your name, no one knew besides you. Receiving the keys shortly after arriving back.

Graduation was a true and humbling experience. But the feeling of relief of not having to take finals, go out with your dad on the weekends, and overall stay at your small dorm of yours was so soothing. You had promised your mom you’d stay the summer with her in their house in Miami. Before moving out to an apartment in Downtown Miami. It was the first couple weeks in which you realized you hated living with them. You were constantly asked what you were doing, where you were going, and why you were being so lazy instead of helping out. You never argued back, but your mom was always there to hold and hug you while you silently friend.

“Y/n? Your dad wants you in his study,” you heard your older brother Ryan say, knowing on your bedroom door. You rolled your eyes, and stood up, quickly throwing on an oversized t-shirt. You roamed through the kitchen to find a bottle of water, quickly taking a sip before knocking on the door of your dad’s study. “Come in.”

You stood by the door, crossing your arms behind you, waiting for him to speak. “Sit. I’d like to discuss something with you.” You knew that meant trouble, trouble for you, but a marvelous plan for him. You’d get used to the disappointment over time, but it never did get easier. You walked over and sat on the leather chair that faced him over his desk. Your dad's glasses hung low on his nose, looking at your choice of outfit. “Could’ve made yourself more presentable. It's almost one pm.”

“Dad!” you groaned, quickly becoming irritated, but he just shrugs it off. “I was discussing with Ryan, and Luke about our opening party for the new hotel in Downtown. Your mother will be assisting you, but you're in charge of decorating, and planning out the event. I just forwarded the invite list. Please don’t waste any time and get to work quickly. I hate being disappointed,” he urged.

Your jaw clenched, eyes wanting to pop out of their sockets. “You have a week, and I mean when I say I don’t want to be disappointed.” you wanted to refuse, to tell him to find someone else, that you're tired of working for him, but instead you brushed back the angry tears and nodded, standing up to walk out. “Anything else I should know?” you quietly said, afraid of your voice breaking.

“You're dismissed.”

You sighed and walked over to your mom’s office, where she gave you a sympathizing smile when opening the door. “I'm sorry sweetie. I just found out today as well. Let’s just help each other out. Maybe you can invite your friends over to help us too. I already did the catering, you can start off by making the invitations and forwarding them over to Luke so he can send them out.” And so you do.

Over the next few days, your mom grows worried when you're just sitting there quietly, not making any conversation or noticing her at all. You look unhappy. You are unhappy. But you knew if you told her, she’d rat you off to your dad, and that's the last thing you needed. She’d take notice of how shy and fragile you look. But you continued to work to make your dad satisfied. “Are you okay Y/n?” your mom asked, but you shrugged it off, “I'm fine. Let's quickly finish here, yeah?”

She did just that. After finishing decorating the tables by securing the silk fabric, placing the glasses, plates, and utensils, and positioning name cards on every table, you went to the mall and picked out a gown for the evening, having a self-care day after the week you had. You treated yourself well, happy with your purchases before heading off home for the day that was held for you tomorrow.

Your black gown was staring at you after you finished your hair and makeup. A smokey eye look and false lashes made you look sexy. You felt sexy and empowering. You went over and picked up the silk material before sliding it over your body. The dress hugged your curves, and the heels elongated your legs giving you the model look. Your family waited for you, your heels clicking against the floor as you placed your gold watch on, a gift from your friends. “You look beautiful Y/n!” your mom gasped, kissing your cheek before guiding you to the car.

You greeted the different guests, hugging old friends of your parents, helping them find their assigned seating, and assuring food would be out quickly. Putting them first over you. You were chatting with your friends, discussing going out after the event tonight, which was needed. You wanted to have drinks and wake up with the most raging hangover.

You shut your eyes annoyed when you heard your dad call you over, “Y/n! Come here for a second sweetie.” He only called you sweetie when it was a client he was interested in having, wanting them to believe in the perfect family title. You excused yourself from your friends, feeling their eyes as you walked over to your family. “Yes Dad?” you asked respectfully, shaking the hands of a blonde woman, and her husband, and then finally a young man close to your age.

You could've sworn you felt butterflies as you stared at his brown eyes. He was attractive, making you feel insecure and intimate with his gaze. “I’m Christian, a pleasure to finally meet you,” instead of shaking your hand, he placed a small kiss on the back of your hands, making your cheeks burn crimson. You smiled at him, shifting your weight from one leg to another, “Likewise Christian, I’m Y/n.”

You stood there quietly hearing your family talk about how they started their business, how they built the new place, and your dad’s career mostly, but what got you intrigued is when he mentioned your name. Christian voice was filled with curiosity, wanting to hear you speak again, “Your dad mentioned you recently graduated. Will you work with him, or what are your plans?”

You looked over to your dad who held almost a frustrated face, your brothers sending you a “don't fuck this up for us” look. “I just graduated! I will be working with him after the summer ends. We have some definite plans of wanting to design and convert something together. I just want to enjoy a bit of time for myself before reality kicks in,” you joked, making them laugh. “Enjoy it, sweetie, because once you become an adult there is no going back,” Christian’s mom said.

You noticed new people were arriving, so you took the time to excuse yourself from the fierce setting. You locked eyes with Chrisitan one more time, feeling goosebumps as you observed his freckled skin and curly hair, god he was sexy. Especially with the suit he was wearing. “If you'd excuse me, I’m going to greet some people that came in. Make sure they settle in okay.”

You didn't look back, just making sure one of your dad's old clients was taken care of. After sharing a few laughs and conversations with your friends you went to take a quick breather outside. You didn’t tell anyone, just wanting some space and peace. You hated these types of events, acting like the perfect daughter to please them. You were shy and reserved, only speaking when the attention was advertised to you. It's what you were taught.

“You okay?” you let out a small gasp, turning over to see Christian again. This time his coat was off, his white button-up undone from the top, and his sleeves giving you a first-hand look at his tattoos. You swallowed and became nervous all over again. “I'm okay. Just needed some time before going back in there,” you said, offering a reassuring smile. He chuckled and joined you, standing dangerously close to you.

“In that case, I'll join you. Events like this aren't my cup of tea,” you gave him a small laugh, “Believe me, I'm on the same page.”

“You look beautiful. Nearly tripped when I saw you…” Christian admitted, watching how your eyes slightly widen at his words, the small blush creeping against your cheeks despite wearing blush already. “Thank you, Christian,” you were speechless, should you say he looked handsome?

“Back there I asked you if you were planning to work with your dad. But I sensed a small hesitation. So I’ll ask you again, what are your plans? Not his, but yours…” you let out a nervous chuckle. Christian read your cards right, and he wanted to know more about you, what you liked and disliked. He wanted to spend the evening with you, break the rules and let you loose.

Was this a test your dad had sent him to you? Or was he genuinely interested in you? You’ve had your share of men wanting to know about you, spend a night with you. You’ve had sex once, never had a boyfriend, who would be interested in you? Why was he interested in you? You overthinking thoughts crossed.

“I want to become a writer. Write my novel, and travel to see the world. I had the chance to go abroad last year, and I miss it. Got to visit places I dreamed of going to as a kid. I don’t want to work with my dad. Or his firm at all. I want to make a name for myself, not the one they’re trying to produce,” you confessed, watching as his hand interlocked with your shaky one. His thumb delicately brushed against your knuckles, assuring you he was right there. How could this handsome, well sexy, stranger make you feel this way? Hot and bothered?

“Tell me more about you Y/n. I want to hear all of it.”

And so you did. You told him about your dream to become an author, explaining how Miami was home to you for so long. You told him about your group of friends, sharing jokes that made him let out deep chuckles, you even went on to tell him about the house you built not too long ago. He told you about his career, his life here in the States, and how he admires his family and friends over anything. Not once spilling out a single lie. You trusted him, as much as he trusted you.

“Take me there, I’d love to see the house. Let's get out of here and continue the night together,” he whispered, nodding his head back to the party inside, “It’s not that easy. They’ll be mad if I do…” you say, turning away from him. Reality set in. Realizing how just as long you’d been out here for. But no one came looking for you. “Can I be honest with you?” Christian said you averted your eyes back to him, his hand brushed against your cheek, tucking a curl behind your ear, his touch sending shivers down your spine.

“I haven’t had this much fun in so long. I needed to have this night, like this. I confide in you, and I want to be near you. You intrigue me a lot Y/n… I just hope you feel the same way, or else I just made a fool out of myself,” he revealed. You let out a shaky breath, feeling his forehead rest against yours. Despite meeting just a couple of hours before, you felt a sense of comfort and safety in his arms. “Wait for me outside. I'll be there in ten minutes okay?” you whispered against his lips, you tested the waters and kissed the corner of his mouth before standing up.

He watched with dark and intrigued eyes as you returned to the party. You made up a lie about not feeling well to your parents. Feeling like you were going to throw up and wanting rest. Of course, your dad caught on but he was with friends, so there was nothing he could say. You told your friends, wanting someone to at least know where you’d be, and they couldn't help but tease you, ushering on to go get your “man”. “Don’t worry about us! Go and enjoy yourself Y/n! Don’t look back.”

Your heels clicked against the concrete, hearing Christian footsteps following you up the stairs of your beach home. “This is it,” you unlocked the door and faced yourself with a family feeling of home. You watched how he silently stared at your home, the long and tall ceilings, the many windows on the wall, the antique furniture, the picture frame of your favorite memories, and the bookshelf near the TV mount. “You designed all this?” he couldn’t help but ask.

He stared at you, watching you nod, and walk over to the kitchen where his jaw drops open, “Holy shit. This is so beautiful Y/n,” you silently patted yourself on the back proudly. He was the first few people that came in here. The only people coming here first were your friends and the construction crew. “You're one of the few people that have seen this place. Not even my family knows about this.”

“I feel honored. Truly, this is amazing work love.” The word love made you almost fold. The way it rolled off his tongue to you. It had you wanting to hear more because you knew he was capable of doing so. “Do you want a drink? I have some beers and other beverages?” you offered, he nodded and settled with a Corona, you having the same. You showed him different parts of the house but upstairs was still unknown to him. You were sitting outside just having meaningful and deep conversations. He told you more of him, even admitting some of the things he said he didn’t tell anyone. You were falling for this man already? Is this what it felt like to like someone? The feeling of security with him didn't leave you, but now there was an elephant in the room that was being discussed. “How did you handle relationships like that? You know, with having a dad like that?”

“I've never been in love. I’ve never had a boyfriend,” you sadly smiled. “I've spent my whole life just living up to their expectations. Having a boyfriend to them was a sign that you were ready to settle down and began your family. Which I’m not prepared for. There is still so much I want to encounter, and having that commitment right now scares me…” you confessed. “This is all new to me Chris… I never bring people here, let alone have talks like I have with you… I have trust issues…” you continued.

Despite sitting outside on the steps that faced the beach, he moved closer to you, grabbing your chin gently facing towards him. “We might've just met. But this feels so, so, so right. Being here with you. If you’d let me I’d prove to you how much you’re worth. Because the woman I see in front of me is beautiful, a pure soul, with talent, and smart. You already have set with what you want to do with your life, and you should. A little love never hurts anyone, and I want to earn your trust,” Christian hummed at the end, now grabbing your cheek, and wiping a small tear that let out.

“I trust you, Christian,” was all you said before crashing your lips against his. His hand now rests on the back of your head, while yours is placed flat on his chest. You kissed him fervently, his soft lips molding against yours. He tasted sweet despite having some beers, and when your tongues began to fight for dominance, he let out a soft groan that made you want to clench your thighs together. “So sweet Y/n…” he whispered.

The sexual tension grew, now feeling as his big hands went behind you to unzip your dress, he kissed along your jaw, leaving a wet trail that made you throw your head back in pleasure. Chrisitan continued kissing down to your bare collarbone, biting the skin and leaving a small mark behind. “You feel perfect against me,” his voice deep. He gripped your waist and felt your clothed nipples as you kissed him back passionately. His hands traveled close to your ass, where he gripped it gently which made you let out a small moan against his mouth. “God the way you sound,” Christian groaned before diving back and kissing you.

You wanted more, you needed more. His touch and taste were addicting. “Christian…” you panted, your small hands making their way up to grab his face. You swallowed before interlocking eyes with him. “Yes, baby? Tell me what you need…” he replied, one of his hands delicately drawing shapes on your spine. “I want you to kiss me…” you say.

He listens. Tasting your cherry-coated lips, his tongue finding its way back inside your mouth, hearing as you whimper as he devoured you. “What else…” Instead of replying you took off his shirt, watching over the small moles that decorated against his skin. You looked up as you kissed over them, watching him throw his head back. You place a small trail of kisses up to his throat where you see him gulp deeply, awaiting your next move. Your thumbs brushed against his nipples, “God your hands are like silk, Y/n. Already can't get enough,” you smiled innocently before unbuckling his belt. You felt his cock harden against his black Calvin Klein boxers. “Now we're even…” you refer to being only in your black lacy bra and thong.

He picked you up, your arms wrapping around his upper shoulders as you let out a small giggle. He placed you on your bed, watching you with hungry eyes at your almost naked figure, Christian felt lucky. “You have such a beautiful body. One I’m going to take my time to kiss and mark on. Will you let me do that? Hm?” he asked you while dipping his head into the crook of your neck, feeling as you let out a breath. All you could do was nod, but he wasn't taking silence as an answer. “I have to hear you say it. I won't touch you unless I hear you say it.”

“Touch me, Christian. Kiss me. Mark me. Just do something please,” you begged. Christian nodded and went between your legs, feeling your legs wrapped around his, your clothed pussy brushing against his clothed cock. His hands went behind you to unclasp your bra, where he slowly kissed around your shoulder, before diving his mouth to your nipple. You let out a shaky moan, feeling his tongue flatly pressed against the sensitive nub before flicking it and sucking with his teeth and lips. His hand comes up to play with your other breast, giving the same undivided attention.

He looked at you, having you under his mercy. He kissed along your ribcage before licking his way down to your navel. Your attention quickly returned to him. You sat up on your elbows, awaiting his next moves, now feeling nervous and shy. “Don’t… whatever is racing through your head isn't true…” he kissed your hip bone. “No one has ever done it… What you're about to do…” you admitted.

“Then I’ll be the first. I need to taste you, baby. I can feel you dripping… I'll be gentle,” Christian reassured you, kissing your lips again, before diving back in between your legs. You felt his stubble kiss along your inner thighs, teasing you, you moaned when his face came close to your heated area. “Kiss me..” you let out a breath, just wanting to feel his tongue against you. “Kiss you where baby? Here?” he went back to kiss your thighs, where you groaned. You shook your head, growing tired of his teasing. “Here, baby…” you pointed at your clothed pussy.

You felt his shoulder flex against the back of your things, watching how he placed your thong to the side before kissing your clit gently. Your lips trembled, biting your bottom lip as you felt place his tongue against you. He pulled you closer and began to eat you out. You moaned, grabbing and tugging his curls, wanting to pull on something as you felt his warm tongue against you. Your back arched as he began to gently flick the bundle of nerves, feeling wetter as you felt him groan. “You're so incredibly sweet, I need more…” he said.

He gave your clit so much attention, that your back arched once again when you felt him place his tongue inside you, his brown eyes watching you as you do so, your nipples completely erect. “Chris… You feel so good… how are you so good at this?” you wailed, your fingers circling your nipple to enhance the pleasure even more. “That’s it baby… play with your nipple and watch me eat this pussy…” he dove back in, feeling your thighs close around him. He spread your legs and began to dig his head deeper into you. You felt the sudden intrusion of his two long and thick fingers inside you, “Fuck. Oh god… Keep going, don’t stop,” you moaned.

“I want you to come for me. I want to watch you come around my fingers, Y/n. Can you do that?” you nodded quickly, feeling his tongue begin flicking your clit again. He pumped and worked his fingers inside you quicker now, feeling how tight you were. “So tight baby, I wonder how my cock will feel inside you…”

He continued the same momentum, bringing you to your high where you cry out his name. He continues to suck and pump his fingers inside you after cumming, beginning to feel a bit overstimulated… “Chris… I want you to fuck me now…” He stops what he’s doing, stands up, and kisses you. The taste of yourself is present, your hands remove his boxers watching his cock spring out. Your eyes widen at his size, feeling smaller than before. “Look so innocent baby. Are you sure you want me to fuck you?” he asks. “Yes. Please fuck me,” you beg.

He smirks and lays you back down, fully removing his boxers, he looks down at your wet cunt, your cum seeping through, he groans and picks up some of your wetness before pumping his dick with it, using it as lube. The sight had you going over and playing with yourself, your fingers drawing small circles to relieve the agony. He removes your fingers, licking over them before resting your hands with one hand above your head.

Both of you watch his cock seep inside you. You let out a small breath… before looking at Christian's face that has pleasure over. His brows pulled together, biting his lip. “So tight and so wet Y/n…” he moans, “Can I keep going?”

“Keep going?” you look back down and notice only half of his cock was in, he smirks before looking at your innocent face all over again. You nod and give him consent, and he slowly begins to drill deep inside you. Your walls clench around him, where he sizzles in almost pain, he notices you frown concerned, “I’m okay baby, just feels so good. I knew your pussy would feel this good around me… Taking me like a good girl you are” Christian praises you.

“You can move…” you say and he lets go of your wrists, watching as your small palms rest against his strong biceps, which you dig your nails into. He begins to slowly thrust out and then go back in, the sight of his abs clenching has you moaning. He finds a correct wave of pleasure for both of you, quickly finding the spot inside you that makes you turn your head to the side and cry out in pleasure. “Eyes on me baby… I need to see your face while I make you come…”

“You're so big, Christian… I can feel you right here…” You place your palm against your abdomen, where he moans in pleasure. “That deep baby?”

You moan out as he picks up his pace, feeling his long and thick cock guided against your wet walls. He leans down and kisses you, wanting to taste your sweet lips. “So perfect baby, doing so good for me…”

“Are you going to come for me Y/n? Gonna come on this cock,” you moan out a yes, kissing his stubbled jaw that tickles you. He grabs your hips, watching as your hands tug on the white sheets below you. He feels in heaven, your warm walls swallowing his cock just like he imagined, the noises you let out reassuring him it wasn’t a dream and it was real. His thrusts were more quicker but still gentle like he had said, your eyes shut, “I'm going to cum Christian… I need to. You're making me feel so fucking good…”

You're at the rim of the glass at how close you were to cumming but you whined when he warned you to wait for him, “Wait for me… I'm almost there baby… Want to cum with you…” You leaned up and kissed him, letting his weight drop against you, your sweaty bodies now closer than ever. The small beads of sweat gilded against his freckled skin, his curls messed up at the way you tugged at them. He stared at your plump and swollen lips, picturing how they would look around his cock.

Chrisitan leaned his head down to your ear, thrusting harder inside you that had you moaning loud, “Cum for me love… Cum all over for me….” He felt you clench against him, his orgasm running with yours. You could've sworn you felt his warm ropes of cum inside you, as his thrust began to falter. He kissed you, smiling when you smiled against his lips, “You okay?”

You hummed muttering out, “Im okay… Feeling tired though…”

“Don’t fall asleep on me now… I have to care for you. Make sure you're nice and clean before we go to bed…” Christian said. He let you know he was going to pull out, and you suddenly felt empty. He picked you up and pulled you into the steamy hot shower, where he washed your hair and body. You return the favor, the loofa gliding against his skin, you drawing small shapes on his tattoos, and him watching you with the biggest grin on his face.

You decide to sleep naked… Not having many clothes here just yet. You told him to sleep in the guest room together, feeling lazy and tired to change the sheets. He held you close, your head on his chest, feeling his nails rake against your arm. But during the night, he somehow ended up on top of you. His curls are messy against your shoulder, and his tattooed arm is around your waist. You felt at home again.

You stir quietly, still feeling the weight on top of you. You don’t know how you manage but you get up and use the restroom. Drawing your hair up in a messy bun and washing your face and teeth. You put on a bra and underwear, going back into the room where Chrisitan continues to sleep. You grab his shirt from last night and button a few buttons. It’s early, maybe six in the morning? But you stare at the man who you now want to spend the rest of your life with.

You kiss his forehead, knowing he can’t hear you but you whisper, “I'm going to make up some breakfast… Come join me when you wake up…” You quietly hop down the stairs into the kitchen you designed from scratch. You make some coffee and rest on the small island that faced the windows outside to the beach. Watching the first lights of morning awakening, you feel his hands wrap around you… “I saw you washed my clothes, and I had wondered where my shirt went…”

He kisses you and says good morning… he pours a cup of coffee and nudges you to go outside to watch the sunrise together. “Give me a second, just going to grab my phone,” he kisses your forehead and walks outside. You pick up your purse and grab your phone. You carry your mug in your left hand while you unlock the phone with your right, only to be met with a message from your father. Your heart sinks, and the feeling of being uncovered overcomes you. Christian notices and asks if you're okay, seeing as you become pale. He looks at the message in your hand, his eyes widening just a bit.

From Dad:

I hope you have a good explanation as to why you’re not home and “resting”, Y/n. You lied to me and your mom. When the fuck were you going to tell me about this home you built here? Why was I not aware of this plan?

tag list! if you'd like to be included just send me a dm or reply below! ❣

@swimmingismywholelife

[itsasainz]

the poison drips through | Roman Roy x Reader

Summary: grief is a natural instigator of reflection; Logan’s funeral forces you to look back on your own grief, and your relationship with Roman.

Word count: 7.3k

Warnings/tags: death of a parent (Logan Roy, reader’s mother), discussions of abuse (physical, emotional), grief and breakdown, mentions of addiction, depression and associated mental health struggles in a parent and in reader, implications of suicide, toxic and/or abusive familial relationships.

a/n: roman roy has a special place in my my heart. he’s awful, he’s product of his environment, I can’t justify his actions, I love him, it’s confusing, I don’t know. I binge watched all of succession in seven (7) days.

masterlist!

You’re not sure how old you were when you first met the Roys, but you find it strange to think of time pre-Roman, pre-Roy, when you were free of proxy-politics, hidden slights and subtle digs. You must have been a preteen, maybe twelve. It would make sense—the second summer after your father moved to New York, when he bought the house in the Hamptons. Your mother had stayed in London that summer, leaving you and your siblings to battle the sweltering Long Island heat alone with your father, who worked most of the summer anyway. Had it been the Sailing Club or the Golf Club where you’d first met Siobhan Roy? You aren’t sure, but you remember the bathroom where you’d run into her, and how a five minute conversation had turned into five weeks of friendship. It had gone beyond that five weeks—even when you got back to the UK, you’d found ways to keep in touch, and spent holidays together when you were in the same place; you’d grown accustomed to Kendall’s strange attempts at seeming “hip” and cool, and Roman’s whining and jokes.

Shiv had been, and is your friend—in many ways, your best friend—but you’d always had a sweet spot for Roman. It wasn’t until you moved to New York more permanently, right after you graduated, that you actually befriended him, your work at his father’s company at first forcing you into the odd work dinner or late night at the office, but routines were formed, at some point. Thursday lunches together, Monday morning coffees. At some point, he’d stopped seeming like Shiv’s whiney older brother, and become funny—most of the time. Roman, you had, at some point understood, took time. But most of your relationship with him came after Greece.

The first time you went on holiday with them—beyond the Hamptons or British countryside—you were twenty-three, and had found yourself on a ten-day trip through the Greek islands on Logan’s oversized yacht. It was that ten days that you realised that you were in, not particularly intentionally, but in nonetheless. You remembered everything about that trip; the private jet that took you to Thessaloniki, the starting point of the trip—you’d fly back to New York from Heraklion, with the entire family, who were coming from various outposts across the globe. To start with, though, it was just the two of you, walking on the scorched tarmac of Thessaloniki’s international airport, leaving the gleaming private jet behind, already feeling slick with set in the hot, midsummer air. You had appreciated the perks of a private jet that day—no queues, no crying babies or seats reclined into your knees—and didn’t have to think twice about where your luggage was, because everything had been taken care of by a team of people you barely saw, working like ants under the foliage. A refreshingly air conditioned car had brought you smoothly to the port, where a smaller boat, already stacked with your luggage, had taken you quickly to the gleaming palace on water that was the Roys’ yacht. The boat was like a small, disturbingly empty, city; an almost utopian place, gleaming and shimmering under the Mediterranean sun, a labyrinthe of rooms and decks and corridors. Despite the surplus of space, it was split between a select few; Logan Roy, of course, his four siblings and their own guests, a selection of board members and his third wife, who you’d met only once or twice before, Marcia. That day was languid, a steady flow of arrivals as the hours passed and the yacht sat just outside of the port, watched by the locals and tourists alike, most likely speculating about the owners of such a gratuitous yacht, carelessly waiting for all the world to see.

You and Shiv had been greeted by Connor, in his pre-Willa days, already in his forties though; Kendall had appeared at first without your notice, but the sound of his children, still babies then, had alerted you of his arrival, alongside his then-wife, Rava, who you still respected wholeheartedly. Roman had been next, harder to miss, making sure to “jokingly” insult everyone aboard within five minutes. You weren’t sure whether to feel flattered when it took him a minute or so to come up with an insult for you, but that train of thought was quickly lost to the arrival of the man himself; Logan Roy came with a fleet of people. He spoke about three words to you directly on that first day, but you supposed that wasn’t so bad—you were hardly novel to him anymore, given how your recent promotions had drastically increased your time spent with him and Kendall. Roman, however, was a different matter entirely.

You’d seen him around an awful lot, and spoken to him maybe twice, never for longer than a passing comment or introduction, though he knew of your friendship with his sister. And yet, here you were, on holiday with his family, and he was suddenly fascinated. Over those ten days, between your hours spent gossiping with Rava and his hours spent talking business with his brother and father, you somehow found time to get attached to the youngest son of the Roy dynasty.

Roman was a piece of a work, there was no denying it. He was insulting, defensive, childish, et cetera, et cetera, but he was often funny, too, and within days you had understood him well—he, like Kendall, Shiv and Connor, was driven by his father’s approval, but as is the way in any family, each of the siblings had manifested the same fears and motivations in different ways. Shiv’s fear of intimacy made for relationships with people who depended on her—for money or status—but who she could keep at an arm's length, and cast aside if they got too attached. Roman more openly craved connection, but his fears and traumas came to light in a more physical expression. The jokes at his expense had swiftly enlightened you to his troubled relationship with sex and affection, while, even this early on, Kendall’s addictions were beginning to form cracks in his determinedly “hip” façade. Most of these things you had already understood, but an extended amount of time on a vehicle that you can’t exactly leave had opened it all up to you—unlike the Hamptons, you couldn’t piss off to the other side of the island or back to the city, but only to the other side of the yacht, and even for a big yacht, it never allowed you to genuinely leave. The thoughts that would later become a strange, fucked up mantra began to formulate on that holiday; before you’d put it into words, or understood what you were asking yourself, the statement was swirling around your consciousness; the poison drips through.

Each of the Roy siblings was broken and damaged in a way you’d never seen before, but your long standing practice of people-reading and your love of untangling the dynamics within groups made the holiday a sort of project—by the end, you’d created a map in your head of the different events and people that made up the complex web of Roy troubles, built off the foundations laid by your friendship with Shiv and many brief interactions with her extensive family over the decade. It was an incomplete map—there would be things you didn’t discover until his death, a decade later, and things you would never know, but that initial map, fraction of what it would become, was the starting point for your relationship with Roman.

Your morbid fascination with the family, and apparent loyalty (though you only realised it years later) met with his intrigue with you. Shiv never brought friends on holiday, he disclosed on the third or fourth day—as such, everyone was trying to work you out, your game, your presence, beyond the limited stuff they already knew. But at the end of the trip, it wasn’t Shiv who you’d spent the most time with, but Roman.

You’d thought of it as a ten-day deep-dive into the family, one that wouldn’t be repeated and that would have few repercussions—for you, anyway, but something had been pushed into being on that yacht that would change the trajectory of your life.

Upon your return to the company, tanned and rested from your break, you found that your routine at work changed a little at first, and then a little more, and then completely. A week after the end of the holiday, Roman had barged into your office at around lunchtime, insulted a photo on your desk and dragged you out for an overpriced lunch to discuss work stuff—a legitimate offer, you later found out from Gerri, about an actual deal that he genuinely wanted to pick your brains about. The work-related talk had lasted maybe fifteen minutes before the two of you were side-tracked by something entirely inconsequential and spent the rest of the hour essentially gossiping. His coarseness surprised you a little, though it shouldn’t have, and you remember your initial reservations about his overt slights and hyperactivity—though nowadays you’ve grown to love both. The deal—the one he’d wanted to pick your brains about—had gone better than anticipated, partially, it was said, due to your counsel. So it became more regular—Thursday lunchtimes became your lunches with Roman, and he would stop by your office for discussions almost every day, uncharacteristically invested in his work, according to his siblings. You started to move up through the company too, taking on more responsibility, spending more time with the family, getting closer to the top.

At some point, you and Roman had become friends. You gravitated towards each other at galas and occasionally went for drinks after work on a Friday night. But, despite your time together, there was something odd about the dynamic—neither of you particularly spoke about your pasts, your childhoods. There was a certain shame you had about your upbringing—you knew it was entirely unfounded, that you’d been better off than the vast, vast majority, but then again, you spent most of your time with multibillionaires these days. Generally, you avoided discussions about family wealth, and guarded the inner-workings of your family, and all its troubles, in a way that is far more impossible for a family of the Roys’ calibre—you had your own secrets, a great many things you refused to discuss, and he knew that. In turn, Roman didn’t seem to want to delve into what it was like to grow up with the mighty Logan Roy as a father; so neither of you pushed it, and the subject of who you were pre-Roman began to fade; it would take a couple of years for it all to be disclosed, and even then, most of your big revelations about your relationship with him seemed to come in times of crisis.

You were friends. Work friends, really, but edging into the ground of the simpler terms; you were friends. You were, perhaps, his only one, or one of very few, and he was one of a fair few on your part, though he and Shiv were almost entirely separate from the company you kept outside of Waystar; you’d sometimes wondered what they’d think of the people you spent your Saturday nights with, or the clubs you frequented. But for years, he was your friend, and only your friend.

You’re not entirely sure when things began to get muddled, and lines began to blur. After one crisis or another, he had turned up at your door, late into the night, too tired and too upset to take the piss out of your apartment—a sure sign something was wrong—and ended up in your bed. You hadn’t slept together, but had spent the night beside one another, in hushed conversation or drifting into restless slumber. You’d woken up with his back to you, and it hadn’t been brought up again, not even when he turned up at your door a week later. Sleeping in the same bed as Roman became more common, though it was never sexual—it eased slowly from the simple need for company to admissions of wanting some form of affection—you would sometimes wake up to find that you had curled into one another, that in your unconscious states you had found an intimacy that was impossible in your waking lives.

And then, at some point, something had changed. You’d created a setting in which Roman could actually communicate—not without difficulty, but a space where he could say what he thought and attempt to move away from what he felt he should think. The emotional stuff took longer, but with those changes came a definite change in the nature of your relationship—namely, there was a newfound romance to it.

You’d held off the idea of a relationship with Roman for a long time—through all his joking, overly casual proposals, which you suspected were a way of him affirming some need for rejection, assuring himself that he was unlovable by presenting the ridiculous to have it shot down, as expected. But that had changed as he had, gradually, changed. As he became more open, more honest in that mesocosm of your apartment, developing a unique ecosystem of trust and loyalty and, you supposed, love, allowed him to become accessible to you in new ways.

Sex had taken longer. You were, to all intensive purposes, his girlfriend for a long while before you actually had sex. It was tentative, a slow process of breaking down barriers and rebuilding his relationship with a lot of things, in order to create a version of him that was capable of vulnerability. It’s still a work in progress. At some point (a nonchalant way of putting it—your milestones with him may have been muddled, but they were still deeply significant to you), the relationship had been opened for scrutiny at the hands of his family. You had, in some senses, created a healing process that they couldn’t comprehend, and you think that for that they will always resent you, but for the most part his siblings saw someone who made their brother a little happier and a little less skittish, and his father saw someone who could talk business and keep his son in check.

You didn’t know if there would ever be a wedding to commemorate it, and you doubted there would be children, but your ever-evolving relationship with him made you happy, and you knew it made him happy. Sometimes, you just wished that all that progress you’d made with him would translate to other aspects of his life, but such hopes never came to fruition—at the end of the day, he was still the young boy desperate for the approval of his hard-headed, abusive father.

It was that relationship with his father that made his relationship with his siblings so twisted. You and Shiv weren’t so close these days, but there was still amiable respect and remnants of that original loving friendship, but circumstance had torn rifts in the friendship of your teen- and twenty-something selves. In your thirties, that love had been somewhat lost, or changed—you’d probably always feel that friendly love for Shiv, the one responsible for this entire trajectory of your life.

Now, however, feels simultaneously like the best and worst time for a reflection on the ins and outs of your relationship with Roman Roy. Your bed is a mess, sheets tangled from Roman’s tossing and turning, his frame tense as he paces back and forth, pink flashcards clutched in his grasp. You’d helped him write them over the last few days, through the frustrations that he couldn’t get the words right or couldn’t express his true feelings.

It is only natural that on the morning of a funeral, you think of the funerals you have been to before. The one that stands out, the paradox, is the funeral that exposed your true upbringing to him; it wasn’t the wealth—Roman had hardly expected anything quite so extreme as his own family, but rather the people, your people, and how different they were from his.

You’d received the call late at night—UK and US time differences had gotten confused, your uncle thought you were five hours ahead, not behind—and had tried to gloss over the reason you were suddenly going back home for a week. Of course, in registering your time off with work—paid compassionate leave—he had discovered the truth, and insisted he accompany you. So Roman had met your family at a wake—not ideal, but it made sense. Your family, for all their flaws, had an open, friendly attitude; anyone was welcome in your home, and help was always offered where it could be, a notion so foreign to him that he’d never quite managed to grasp it.

Your family had been confused but welcoming of him; the context of your mother’s death was a strange setting to first impressions, but they liked him nevertheless. Your brother found his jokes more than a little amusing, and your little cousin seemed to think he’d hung the moon, which had more than baffled him—he’d never liked kids, even when they looked like you might have when you were little, even (perhaps especially) when they made him wonder about having children with you. That funeral had been a modest affair with a large turnout—most of the neighbourhood seemed to be there, but there was no fancy coffin or grand church; it was a small funeral, as your mother had wished, and as fitted the circumstances.

You remember a conversation with your sister a day or two later; sat in the garden, smoking, she had turned to you, posed that fatal question; What if the poison drips through? You had dismissed it initially, but at some point, probably after another depressive episode after, you had understood it. The poison drips through. But that was then, and this is now. This is not a modest funeral in your mother’s hometown, but a lavish one, in New York City.

No, this funeral is different.

Logan Roy’s funeral is not a neighbourhood affair, but an international one, and your Roman is doing the eulogy—hence the pacing and the flashcards. He is already dressed, and you are still in your pyjamas, but that is hardly the consideration—in this moment, you are simply concerned over whether or not Roman will make it through the eulogy; with every hour that passes, you become less convinced by his claim that he has “pre-grieved” his father’s death. If Roman breaks, the whole world will see it, abuse it, manipulate it; but everyone, Roy or not, should be able to grieve their parent’s death—no matter how awful they were—without judgement or manipulation.

He looks up from his cards— “You’re not dressed yet.”

“We have time.” you chide, but slip out of the tangle of bedsheets and turn the shower on. “Getting there on time is not going to be an issue.”

He dismisses you again, announcing the lines from his flashcards to himself as you shower, still going as you do your make up and dress, eat a little food—as much as you can stomach on a day like this, and make sure everything in terms of logistics will run smoothly, send a quick text to Shiv to make sure she’s coping—you’re sure none of them are—and eventually let Roman know it’s just about time to go.

His composure is already cracking by the time you get to the car. There is a sense of foreboding, and though you can’t bring yourself to iterate the thought, you have a distinct premonition that Roman’s eulogy will not happen as planned. You’re even wondering if he’ll sneak out before it’s his turn to speak, but you push the thought away. Roman would be okay, he always managed to scrape himself out of trouble, somehow.

The funeral is sombre, to no one’s surprise. You end up on the front pew, between Roman and Kendall, though you’re not entirely sure how. The service is long, as Roman Catholic funerals usually are, in your experience, and Roman will have to sit through the rest of it after his eulogy—whether it’s good that he’ll get it over with, or bad that he’ll have to sit with it for ages after is something you can’t decide on. You suppose that regardless of which point in the service he did the eulogy, he will always have to sit with his words.

And then it’s his part, and he doesn’t even manage the first sentence. You realise, the moment that he looks over to the coffin, that it’s over. You’re the first to get to him at the front, pulling the cards from his hands and letting him collapse into you, the cards getting taken by Kendall, the Roys all there to offer some form of support to their faltering sibling. His questions, his grief, are concerned with Logan’s body, lying and waiting in that coffin. It does, admittedly, seem unnatural that such a force could be contained in such a simple box. You feel almost like you are carrying him back to the pew, tucked under your arm, and welcoming him into your side, his body pressed into yours as though you are the only thing keeping him on earth, as if he would be gone without you. You let him cling, you make it to the end of the service without a further disruption, and then tell Shiv you’ll walk him back to the reception yourself, make sure he’s in a better state before you present him to the world once more. You sneak him out somehow, find a long route back that is not impacted by protests or by paparazzi.

The walk is slow, and he comes to himself little by little by the simple process of walking. He calms his breathing, starts to look about, register his surroundings and the events of the last few hours.

“Why’d you take us this route?” he asks. It’s not the quickest route, and it’s too strange a route to simply be about avoiding photos or crowds. He’s frowning, but you don’t seem embarrassed or confused by his line of questioning.

“My grandparents used to say that you should leave a funeral in small groups, and never all take the same route. It was some superstitious thing—like, if you all took the same route back then the soul of the dead would be able to follow you home, and they’d never leave.” You don’t say that you would hate for Logan’s soul to remain here, to follow him for the rest of his life.

He frowns at you. “I don’t think there’s much we can do to stop him from staying.”

You sigh. “You’re probably right.”

“I’ll never escape him, will I?”

“Roman, for the first time in your life you can step out of this sphere. You can look at the world without the oversight of that bastard, and you can pick a direction. You have the choice, the ability to choose for yourself without his consequence. If you want so badly to escape him, then you can. It’s in your grasp.”

He doesn’t respond, meandering toward your destination. Eventually, he formulates a response. “He’s gone, but the rest of them aren’t.”

You don’t push it—it’s for another day. Instead, you hold his hands in the street, and the pair of you head towards the reception.

He’s beside you for the majority of the evening, until you go to get a drink so that kendall can have a word—a bad idea, in retrospect—and you return to find him gone. Kendall shrugs you off, and no one else knows or cares where he’s gone. You call him a few times, wonder if he just needs some quiet, and then feel your instincts correct you; Roman has not gone for a moment of quiet, you know him better than that, and there is no guarantee he is safe or calm or well.

So you leave, try his phone a few more times, and some morbid curiosity leads you toward the sounds of the protestors. Perhaps it’s your gut, perhaps there is something that viscerally understands his masochism and self destruction. You know you’ll find him in that mob, at the mercy of the only people who will show him violence like his father used to. You feel sick with the thought, nauseous with the understanding of what he is doing to himself.

Sure enough, by the time you find him he has been beaten to a pulp, he is black and blue and bloody, damn near smiling with the pain despite being barely able to stand or walk, destroyed by a sadistic crowd. They do not know this man, you think, as you bundle him into a car, they do not understand grief if they can do this to a man who had freshly lost his father.

At your apartment, you sit him against the bathroom wall, on the floor, splatters of blood on his clothes, tainting the white tiles. He’s incoherent as you sort the first aid kit, and find a cloth to clean him up with. You work methodically, sure to keep him conscious in case of a concussion, as you clean and dress every part of broken skin, and treat his bruises with an ointment you find in the bottom of the kit, and strip him of his stained clothes, providing him with a change. You do not leave him alone, for fear of what might happen, and help him into some new clothes, sweaters and top, too casual for him to ever actually wear—you’d bought the joggers over a year ago and seen him wear them twice—before settling him into bed. You know enough about concussions to know you should wake him up frequently to check on him, but for now you let the tears come in waves. You’ve cleaned the physical wounds, and you hope that with every round of tears comes a cleanse, one that will make the wounds of his broken life easier to heal come the morning, as though the tears themselves will act to wash the grit from the graze, or to pick the shrapnel out from the marred flesh of this open wound.

You look around your apartment, out the window at the city below, and an idea strikes you—almost certainly a bad one, but you’re beyond the point of caring. “Rome,” you say, “You wanna go to Barbados?”

-

Caroline’s place in Barbados is lovely, if a little mosquito-ridden, and it feels oddly bonding to care for Roman together with his distant, almost neglectful mother. She loves him, that much is true, but it’s never enough.

You have thought more about your own mother in the last two weeks than in the last few years—not because you’d wanted to forget her, you saw her in everything—these thoughts were more active, like you were searching for the memories that might guide you in how to deal with this, or help Roman to cope. Your mother had been a different kind of a parent to Logan, and her issues had never been sought out—it was like no matter what she did, she would always have been claimed the same way, her life would always have made yours worse, despite anyone’s efforts to change that.

The poison drips through. That had been your sister’s line, and now Kendall’s. You’d experienced some of what your mother had first-hand, and it always made you wonder if everyone is destined to become their parents, to mirror their lives no matter how consciously they tried to avoid it; whether they resign themselves to it, or try so hard to avoid it that they do a full circle, returning to the likeness of their parents, everyone you’ve ever known is the product of their parents; it is biological, cultural, psychological.

It’s no surprise when Shiv arrives, ready to turn Roman to her side of the discussion about the board meeting. It’s late afternoon when you and Shiv find a moment—Roman has disappeared, and you sit on the paved surrounding to the pool, legs soaked up to your knees, weight leant back on your arms. The youngest Roy is somewhere behind you, to the right, probably on a deck chair.

“Do you think—and tell me to fuck off if you like—that maybe this whole deal is a good thing?”

You hear her sit up, and turn to look at her. She’s frowning at you, “How so?”

“I don’t know, ‘cause, like, you guys—all of you—have just been trapped in this sphere of Waystar and ATN and your dad, and all of you are just fucking miserable. What if you—what would be so bad about just getting out? You could free yourselves from all this bullshit, and there’s no Logan to pull you back in, so you could just… be. Just, y’know, learn a bit more about who you are outside of your father’s sphere of influence. Plus, like, Kendall’s gonna break, Roman already has, and you—all of you—are, frankly, pretty fucking fragile at the minute.”

She moves to come and sit next to you, slipping her feet into the pool beside yours. “You don’t understand.”

You shrug. “I’m sure I don’t.”

“We’re never, really, going to be free of it. Any of it.”

She shifts, her head resting on the bare skin of your shoulder, hair ticklish on your neck. You rest the side of your face on the crown of her head. “Maybe, maybe that’s true. But for the first time in your lives, the door’s open.”

The silence stretches out over the pool, filling the air, making you wonder what’s going on in her head. You sit like that for a while and at some point you realise she’s crying— not sobbing, not shaking with the force of it, but just sitting there, letting the tears stream; you don’t think she’s even really blinking, but the stillness remains, you don’t move. She needs this. You know about the scheduled meeting rooms for crying—Roman mentioned it—but this doesn’t feel like mourning. Not for her father, at least.

“Hey, fucknuts,” Roman calls, appearing at the edge of the courtyard, still barefoot in the shorts and top Caroline had gotten him when you first arrived. Shiv swiftly brushes the tears away, smiling up at him. He looks between you. “Ah, fuck—what… nevermind.”

Suddenly, you are plunging through the chlorinated water, lungs straining at the shock, hands splaying out through the cyan waters, in some momentarily suspended, bubbly universe, the tiled walls of the pool reflecting its pale, eggshell blue translucence onto your skin. You burst upward, drawing in a deep breath and flicking your hair from your face as your toes find the floor of the pool. “Argh, fuck you!”

Roman is laughing, Shiv in a similar state to you, and the moment feels distinctly child-like. You wade through the neck-deep water to the edge, and reach up to him to help you out, but he shakes his head. “Fuck that,” he chides, “I’m not that stupid.”

Shiv is laughing now, and you realise that you’re smiling despite yourself. “Rome, come on, at least help the pregnant lady.”

“Yeah, Rome, help the pregnant lady!” Shiv echoes, joining you at the edge and reaching for him. He knows what’s about to happen and submits himself to it regardless, letting her get a grip of his hands and be practically thrown over your heads, crashing sidelong into water. The splash and waves lap at your chin but you and Shiv are too busy laughing to notice; he struggles upright and rolls his eyes through his smile.

“Cunts.” he groans.

Shiv splashes him in the face with some water, and he swears again, splashing her back and catching you in the process. The ensuing water fight is short and chaotic, halted by Caroline’s arrival to tell you all to be quiet. Roman is laughing, the three of you paddling to the shallow end through some half-hearted apologies. Clambering out and grabbing some towels, you meander down to the seats and drinks table overlooking the seas, drying out your hair and letting conversation turn to business. This is where Kendall finds you, twenty minutes later, in a serious discussion about the board meeting.

The next few hours are a rollercoaster. Calls, discussions, debates, the classic Roy egoistical outlook on why each of them are better suited to the CEO position and why they have been groomed for it. Privately, as you meander in and out of their discussions, conscious that you’re not really involved in their family stuff at all, you settle on the idea that perhaps none of them are. Your feelings about the deal are one thing, meant to be separate from your feelings about them, but they intertwine now—the future of the company lies with them, and their capabilities, and their decisions. That’s not particularly your concern, you’ve been starting to manoeuvre your way out of your current position of influence, toying with the idea of leaving completely, selling your shares and heading elsewhere, but the idea of leaving them behind, leaving Roman behind, is too difficult to consider. What if you didn’t have to factor that in? What if you could walk away knowing it wasn’t them you were walking away from?

It’s this spiralling thought process that subdues you during dinner, ignoring Peter’s friend—James? John?—and knocking back continuous cocktails. Shiv frowns at you, “Trying to get hungover before the board meeting?”

You let out a half laugh. “If I drink a bit more tomorrow I won’t get the hangover.”

Kendall watches you for a second. “Clear minds tomorrow.”

You roll your eyes. Caroline glares at you all for ignoring the pitch you’re currently being presented with and you glance at Roman beside you. He’s anxious, he has been since the morning of the funeral, and you get the sense that he—body, mind and soul—is consuming himself, like he’s just destroying the fabric of himself from the inside out, so destroyed by his father’s death. The whole structure of his life, its fabric and its character, has been defined by his father’s presence and absence, and the man’s ability to maintain his presence even through his absence, but that presence, that famed presence, their “dear, dear world of a father” diminishes with every passing second.

Roman’s hand finds yours under the table, slightly clammy, taking you by surprise. His initiation is uncharacteristic. You give his hand a slight squeeze, and in response he laces his fingers into yours, a more substantial hold. Be here, he seems to ask. The world goes quiet—it’s just you, Roman, and your palms against one another under the table.

Like all things, the moment passes, the chaos returns. More phone calls, an equivocal end to the dinner, and you end up at the house, the Roys down at the beach. You lie at the end of Roman’s bed, feet still on the floor, staring at the ceiling fan; there could be any manner of discussions going on between the siblings at the sea, you could wake up to find they’ve drowned one another or something. Knocked each other out with a coconut or some shit. Roman, your Roman, and his grief, his deep felt love and guilt and terror, lost in the storm of this entire shitshow. You think of that day at Connor’s ranch when you saw the scars on Logan’s back, Ewan’s eulogy about his polio and self-blame, the mirror he made his children look in when they cried. Broken people make broken people. It’s easy to think of time as linear—past, present, future—but it’s more of a circle, you think. Infinite, never-ending, always repeating the same old mistakes. Kendall’s distant fathering, Logan’s abusive fathering—were they really so different?

The poison drips through.

It’s difficult to compare your childhood with the Roys’, but you remember those same thoughts, of a different nature—you’d been lucky enough to live in a world where things were talked about, and you had been able to process things as they happened, rather than let them bubble under the surface, but there had always been that idea. Your family history, the mental health troubles, ECT treatments and various crises in your family history, long before your time, and the effects that you had grown up with. You remember the first time you understood that your mother wasn’t quite right. You remember trying to get her out of bed to walk you to school and the realisation that she wasn’t really there, not in her mind, anyway. And in your teenage years, when you felt that yourself for the first time, you remember the terror of becoming her, of losing all feeling until you couldn’t get out of bed for days at a time.

When you took Roman to her funeral, you hadn’t told him how she’d died, too scared it would be weird or uncomfortable. He’d worked it out, and confronted you in the bathroom at the wake. Sat on the bath met, you had unleashed it all on him, and it had been one of the few genuine conversations you’d had with him in those first years. It had been a different kind of a struggle to his—it wasn’t actively inflicted by your parents, it wasn’t an intentional abuse like the kind he had experienced, but an enforced bystander effect—instead, you had had to stand at the sidelines as your mother collapsed in on herself, decaying before your eyes until you gave up and left. Half the world away, you had learned to understand those things, but now Roman had hints of it in him—he was barely even a bystander in his father’s death, but the grief and guilt were parallel.

This deal was his version of moving to NYC. An escape, an out.

You must drift off, because you open your eyes to the muffled chant; a meal fit for a king. Downstairs, you find them, concocting some awful smoothie, cackling like maniacs. As teenagers, it had been one of those games you’d played when their parents were away, seeing who could stomach the most awful of concoctions for trivial prizes and rewards—apparently this is similar, an initiation to a proper CEO position, on Kendall’s part. You make yourself known by handing Shiv a bottle of Tabasco, Kendall groaning and the other two cheering.

Caroline’s interruption only spurs it on, and by the time you’re heading back to bed, the smoothie having been dumped on Kendall’s head, a crown, you can barely stand you’re so tired.

Still vaguely unfamiliar, you wake up with Roman’s face pressed into your neck, his breath warm and ticklish on your skin, arm thrown over your waist and legs tangled together, a position that makes you think he really is comfortable with you, even if it’s taken a ridiculously long time to get here. You wonder if he can hear the air in your lungs or the blood in your arteries, or whether he notices the patter of your heart as you recognise this display of unconscious affection. Eventually, the rest of the building comes to life, and Roman wakes, moves from you with a sort of embarrassment, changing from his Walmart shirt into business attire. You wear the pantsuit you’d gotten with this board meeting in mind a while back, your office fashion being a slight point of pride—you weren’t the biggest fan of the drab stuff people usually wore, and liked to use interesting cuts and shapes to create range in the endless blouses and blazers and skirts and trousers of your work clothes. Subtle, but not boring.

Back in NYC, after a morning of calls and diplomacy and last minute bids for votes, you are greeted with a room full of people in expensive suits waiting and chattering anxiously as board members start to file in. You still don’t know how to vote, whether you’ll side with the siblings or not. Instead of stressing, you wrangle some gossip out of Stewy and do a shot in the bathroom. Zero hour.

With a pencil, you tally up each vote on a Post-It note stuck to the page of your notebook where you were planning to take notes, both Shiv, to your right, and Roman, to your left, glance at the tally every few seconds. You will be the last three votes.

When it reaches Roman’s turn, it is 6-4 toward the deal, he votes against and you are faced with a choice. If you vote for the deal, Shiv’s vote is purely nominal, and the deal will go through whether she likes it or not—you will be the decider; if you vote against, then it is an even 6-6 and she will cast the deciding vote. You look at the faces of each of the Roys, the children who have grown up to get to this moment. It feels ridiculous that it might be your choice. In the end, that is what makes you vote how you do—this is their livelihood more than it is yours, and you want Shiv to have the options in front of her—you can cope either way. So you vote against the deal—not for any loyalty to Kendall, but for one of your oldest friends, to give her some ounce of autonomy when you know that’s something that has been scarce in her life. Perhaps it's cruel to give her the choice between her brother and her husband, but, selfishly, you don’t want Roman to hate you.

“No, I vote against.” you eventually utter out, earning a triumphant nod from Kendall. Shiv glances at your tally, confirming the equal scores, confirming that it is her choice that makes or breaks the deal—literally.

And she breaks.

You see them, the Roy children, through the glass walls that separate the various conference rooms. You see the pain, the anger, the fear; it comes to a head, and all of the raw emotion of the last days is borne into the world, witnessed through the glass. You listen to Kendall’s rage, and for a minute you are a teenager, listening to one of Logan’s tantrums after one of Roman’s misdemeanours. For a minute, you realise how quickly Kendall turns into his father. For a minute, you feel your heart break on their behalf—at the end of the day, they are children, mourning for a father whose love was confusing and hateful.

The poison drips through.

You are your mother’s daughter, and he is his father’s son.

Afterwards, as you stand beside Shiv in a commemorative photograph, it is understood that there is no singular reason behind this. The freedom of her siblings; the power as the wife of a CEO, not the sister; the wishes of her late father; Kendall’s rage; Roman’s breakdown; the inevitable becoming of one’s own mother. When you and Roman leave, despite the knowledge that Roman is emotional and angry and probably confused by a sense of relief, you resolve that you will call her in the morning. You’ll make your exit as quietly as you can, but you will try to book Saturday morning brunches with her like you used to when you were in your early twenties. You’ll text Rava a little more, and try to create some positive influences in the next generations of Roy children.

You think of your parents. Of Logan, of Caroline, of your own siblings and your own childhood. The poison drips through. What if it doesn’t have to?

[stephensmithuk]

The Mazarin Stone

First published in 1921, this was an adaptation of a one-act play Doyle wrote called The Crown Diamond: An Evening with Sherlock Holmes that ran in London that same year and featured Sebastian Moran.

It is also written in the third person, rare for a Holmes story.

A gasogene was a two-globed late Victorian device for producing sparkling water or other such carbonated beverages; the liquid was placed in the bottom and a mixture of tartaric acid and bi-carbonate of soda at the top. You tipped it slightly to start the process going. They had a habit of exploding under pressure, so were in a wire or wicker mesh to stop glass flying around if they did.

Cardinal Mazarin (1602-1661) was Chief Minister to Louis XIII and XIV from 1642 until his death. Succeeding Cardinal Richelieu of The Three Musketeers fame, he proved a hugely effective diplomat, playing a key role in the Treaty of Westphalia of 1648, whose principles of national sovereignty remain key to modern international relations.

He acquired a massive art, literature and jewel collection as well, leaving eighteen diamonds called "the Mazarins" to Louis XIV on his death.

Air guns with a pellet discharge of under 12ft/lb are today legal to own in the UK without a licence - anything over that is legally a firearm and regulated as such i.e. licences are needed.

A gudgeon is one of many small bottom-dwelling fish.

Algeria had been gradually conquered by France between 1830 and 1903, become an integral part of the country; something most colonies did not have happen to them. It also gained a very large number of European settlers.

"Train-de-luxe" referred to a train exclusively made up of CIWL carriages, all of which were pretty luxurious with the obvious exception of the dedicated luggage vans. The Orient Express was one such train for much of its history.

"It's a fair cop" is a British slang expression meaning "it was wrong and you caught me fairly".

[xtruss]

‘Like Going To The Moon’: The World’s Most Terrifying Ocean Crossing

— Julia Buckley, CNN | Monday February 5, 2024

The Drake Passage is feared by travelers and sailors alike. Gerald Corsi/iStockphoto/Getty Images

It’s the body of water that instils fear and inspires sailors in equal measure. Six hundred miles of open sea, and some of the roughest conditions on the planet – with an equally inhospitable land of snow and ice awaiting you at the end of it.

“The most dreaded bit of ocean on the globe – and rightly so,” Alfred Lansing wrote of explorer Ernest Shackleton’s 1916 voyage across it in a small lifeboat. It is, of course, the Drake Passage, connecting the southern tip of the South American continent with the northernmost point of the Antarctic Peninsula.

Once the preserve of explorers and sea dogs, the Drake is today a daunting challenge for an ever-increasing number of travelers to Antarctica – and not just because it takes up to 48 hours to cross it. For many, being able to boast of surviving the “Drake shake” is part of the attraction of going to the “white continent.”

But what causes those “Shakes,” which can see waves topping nearly 50 feet battering the ships? And how do sailors navigate the planet’s wildest waters?

For oceanographers, it turns out, the Drake is a fascinating place because of what’s going on under the surface of those thrashing waters. And for ship captains, it’s a challenge that needs to be approached with a healthy dose of fear.

The World’s Strongest Storms

The Drake Passage can see waves of up to 49 feet. Mike Hill/Stone RF/Getty Images

At around 600 miles wide and up to 6,000 meters (nearly four miles) deep, the Drake is objectively a vast body of water. To us, that is. To the planet as a whole, less so.

The Antarctic Peninsula, where tourists visit, isn’t even Antarctica proper. It’s a thinning peninsula, rotating northwards from the vast continent of Antarctica, and reaching towards the southern tip of South America – the two pointing towards each other, a bit like a tectonic version of Michelangelo’s “Creation of Adam” in the Sistine Chapel.

That creates a pinch point effect, with the water being squeezed between the two land masses – the ocean is surging through the gap between the continents.

“It’s the only place in the world where those winds can push all around the globe without hitting land – and land tends to dampen storms,” says oceanographer Alexander Brearley, head of open oceans at the British Antarctic Survey.

Winds tend to blow west to east, he says – and the latitudes of 40 to 60 are notorious for strong winds. Hence their nicknames of the “roaring forties,” “furious fifties” and “screaming sixties” (Antarctica officially starts at 60 degrees).

But winds are slowed by landmass – which is why Atlantic storms tend to smash into Ireland and the UK (as they did, causing havoc, with Storm Isha in January buffeting planes to entirely different countries) and then weaken as they continue east to the European continent.

With no land to slow them down at the Drake’s latitude anywhere on the planet, winds can hurtle around the globe, gathering pace – and smashing into ships.

“In the middle of the Drake Passage the winds may have blown over thousands of kilometers to where you are,” says Brearley. “Kinetic energy is converted from wind into waves, and builds up storm waves.” Those can reach up to 15 meters, or 49 feet, he says. Although before you get too alarmed, know that the mean wave height on the Drake is rather less – four to five meters, or 13-16 feet. That’s still double what you’ll find in the Atlantic, by way of comparison.

And it’s not just the winds making the waters rough – the Drake is basically one big surge of water.

“The Southern Ocean is very stormy in general [but] in the Drake you’re really squeezing [the water] between the Antarctic and the southern hemisphere,” he adds. “That intensifies the storms as they come through.” He calls it a “funneling effect.”

Then there’s the speed at which the water is thrashing through. The Drake is part of the most voluminous ocean current in the world, with up to 5,300 million cubic feet flowing per second. Squeezed into the narrow passage, the current increases, traveling west to east. Brearley says that at surface level, that current is less perceptible – just a couple of knots – so you won’t really sense it onboard. “But it does mean you’ll travel a bit more slowly,” he says.

For oceanographers, he says, the Drake is “a fascinating place.”

It’s home to what he calls “underwater mountains” below the surface – and the enormous current squeezing through the (relatively) narrow passage causes waves to break against them underwater. These “internal waves,” as he calls them, create vortices which bring colder water from the depths of the ocean higher up – important for the planet’s climate.

“It’s not just turbulent at the surface, though obviously that’s what you feel the most – but it’s actually turbulent all the way through the water column,” says Brearley, who regularly crosses the Drake on a research ship. Does he get scared? “I don’t think I’ve ever been really fearful, but it can be very unpleasant in terms of how rough it is,” he says candidly.

Fear Breeds Fear

In 2010, tourist ship Clelia II declared an emergency after suffering engine failure in the Drake. Fiona Stewart, Garett McIntosh/AP

One other key thing that makes the Drake so scary: our fear of the Drake itself.

Brearley points out that until the Panama Canal opened in 1914, ships going from Europe to the west coast of the Americas had to dip round Cape Horn – the southern tip of South America – and then trundle up the Pacific coast.

“Let’s say you were shipping goods from western Europe to California. You either had to offload them in New York and do the journey across the US, or you had to go all the way around,” he says. It wasn’t just large cargo ships, either; passenger ships made the same route.

There’s even a monument at the tip of Cape Horn, in memorial of the more than 10,000 sailors who are believed to have died traveling through.

“The routes between the south of South Africa and Australia, or Australia or New Zealand to Antarctica, don’t really lie on any major shipping routes,” says Brearley. “The reason it’s been so feared over the centuries is because the Drake is where ships really have to go. Other parts [of the Southern Ocean] can be avoided.”

‘We Don’t Gamble’

Captain Stanislas Devorsine regularly crosses the Drake. Sue Flood/Ponant Photo Ambassador

Navigating the Drake is an extremely complex task that demands humility and a side of fear, says Captain Stanislas Devorsine, one of three captains of Le Commandant Charcot, a polar vessel of adventure cruise company Ponant.

“You have to have a healthy fear,” he says of the Drake. “It’s something that keeps you focused, alert, sensitive to the ship and the weather. You need to be aware that it can be dangerous – that it’s never routine.”

Devorsine made his Drake debut as a captain over 20 years ago, sailing an icebreaker full of scientists over to Antarctica for a research stint.

“We had very, very rough seas – more than 20 meter [66 feet] swells,” he says. “It was very windy, very rough.” Not that Ponant’s clients face anything like that. Devorsine is quick to point out that the comfort levels for a research ship – and the conditions it will sail in – are very different from those for a cruise.

“We are extremely cautious – the ocean is stronger than us,” he says. “We’re not able to go in terrible weather. We go in rough seas but always with a big safety margin. We’re not gambling.”

Even with that extra safety margin, though, he admits that crossing the Drake can be a hairy experience. “It can be very rough and very dangerous, so we take special care,” he says.

“We have to choose the best time to cross the Drake. We have to adapt our course – sometimes we don’t head in our final direction, we alter the course to have a better angle with the waves. We might slow down to leave a low pressure path ahead, or speed up to pass one before it arrives.”

The ‘Drake Shake’ and Broken Plates

Captains check the weather up to six times a day before departure to ensure a safe crossing. Jamie Lafferty

Of course, every time you get on a ship – whether it’s a simple ferry ride or a fancy cruise – the crew will already have meticulously planned the journey, checking everything from the weather to the tides and currents. But planning for a crossing of the Drake is on a whole new level.

Weather forecasting has improved in the two decades since Devorsine’s first ride, he says – and these days crew start planning the voyage while passengers are making their way to South America from all over the globe.

Sometimes they leave late; sometimes they head back early, to beat bad weather. Devorsine – who makes the return journey about six to eight times per year – estimates that the unusually calm “Drake lake” effect happens once in every 10 crossings, with particularly rough conditions (that “Drake shake”) once or twice in every 10 journeys.

Of course, he knows what’s in store long before the passengers reach the ship.

“We look ahead to have the best option to cross. Normally I look at the weather 10 days or a week before, just to have an idea of what it could be,” he says.

“Then I check the forecast once per day, then two or three days before departure I start looking at it twice per day. If it’s going to be a challenging passage you look every six hours. If you have to adjust your departure time, then you look at it very closely to be very accurate.”

His safety margin means that he’s calculating a route that will get you across not just alive, but also as comfortably as possible. Hearing an anecdote about broken crockery and furniture on another operator, he sighs, “That’s a bit too far for me.”

“Before you have any issue with a storm, you have to keep a comfortable ship,” he says. The safety margin is to be sure that the guests will enjoy being in Antarctica, and that we won’t turn around because we have a problem… like injured people.”

In extreme conditions, he orders extra weather advice from Ponant HQ, but if you’re imagining the staff on the bridge desperately radioing for advice as waves batter the ship, think again.

“It would never happen to be in the middle of the Drake with bad conditions, needing assistance from headquarters because it would mean we didn’t have any safety margin before departure. When we cross and it’s going to be challenging, we have a big safety margin and the ship is not at all in danger.”

They are in contact with headquarters with high level satellite antennae throughout the crossing, with both satellite and radio backup if needed – Devorsine says he can’t imagine ever losing contact, whatever the weather.

Antarctica cruise: The last frontier for a big at-last luxury adventure

A Dangerous Thrill

Aurora Expeditions' Greg Mortimer ship has a patented bow to make a Drake crossing more stable. Tyson Mayr/Aurora Expeditions

Devorsine, who now spends 90% of his time sailing in polar waters, feels at home on the Drake. “When I was a little child, I read books about the maritime adventures of sailors and polar heroes,” he says. “I was attracted by tough things – I like challenges. This is why I followed the path to be able to sail in these areas.”

His first experience of the area was doing a “race around the world” in a sailboat as a youngster, heading south from his native France and rounding Cape Horn.

“It was my dream because it’s difficult, dangerous and challenging,” he says.

He’s not the only one. Some guests are drawn to Antarctica trips because of the tough journey. “I guess [they] are attracted by these areas [of the Southern Ocean] because it’s wild, it can be rough, and it’s a unique experience to go there,” he says.

Not everone’s a thrill-seeker though. As managing director of Mundy Adventures, an adventure travel agency, Edwina Lonsdale is dealing with a clientele already used to discomfort – yet she says crossing the Drake is a “conversation topic” during booking.

“it’s something we would raise to make sure people are completely aware of what they’re buying,” she says. “[Going to Antarctica] is a huge investment – you need to talk through every aspect and make sure nothing’s an absolute no.”

Lonsdale advises that passengers nervous of feeling sick should choose their ship carefully. In the past, vessels heading to Antarctica tended to be uncomfortable metal boxes built to take a heavy beating. But in recent years, companies have introduced more technically advanced vessels: like Le Commandant Charcot, which was the world’s first passenger vessel with a Polar Class 2 hull – meaning it can go deeper and further into the ice in polar regions – when it debuted in 2021.

Two of Aurora Expeditions’ ships, the Greg Mortimer and Sylvia Earle, use a patented inverted bow, designed to slide gently through the waves, reducing impact and vibration and improving stability, rather than “punching” through the water as a regular bow shape does, which makes the bow rock up and down.

Lonsdale says that the fancier the vessel and the offerings onboard, the more distractions you’ll have if bad weather hits. Newer boats often have more spacious rooms and bigger windows so that you can watch the horizon, which helps to lessen seasickness. If the budget allows, she says, book a suite – you won’t just get more space, you’ll (likely) have floor-to-ceiling windows, too.

But a word of advice – she recommends a careful selection not just of the right operator for you, but of the ship itself.

“Just because a company has a fleet with a very modern ship doesn’t mean the whole fleet will be like that,” she says.

‘Act Before You Start Spewing’

At Cape Horn there's a monument marking the 10,000 sailors thought to have died navigating the Drake. DreamPictures/Photodisc/Getty Images

So you’ve conquered your fears, booked your ticket and you’re about to set sail. Bad news: the captain is predicting the Drake shake. What to do?

Hopefully you’ve come prepared. Most ships have ginger candies on offer during bad weather, but bring your own, as well as any anti-seasickness medication you want to take. Some passengers swear by acupressure “seeds”: tiny spikes, attached to your ears with a sticking plaster, designed to stimulate acupuncture points. Some ships offer acupuncture onboard; alternatively you can get it done beforehand, since the seeds last for some time.

Devorsine’s top tips are to keep your eyes on the horizon, hold onto the handrail when walking around, be careful around doors, and “don’t jump out of bed.”

Jamie Lafferty, a photographer who leads excursions on Antarctic cruises, says that of his 30-odd crossings, “I’ve had one where it felt like I was going to fall out of bed and that was the second time, way back in 2010 when there was a lot more guesswork involved. Crossing the Drake Passage is much, much more benign than it used to be thanks to the accuracy of modern forecasting models and stabilizers on more modern cruise ships. This doesn’t mean it’ll be smooth, but it’s vastly less chaotic and unpredictable than it used to be.”

His top tip? “Take seasickness medication before heading out into open sea – once you start spewing, tablets aren’t going to be any use.”

Warren Cairns, senior researcher at the Institute of Polar Sciences of the National Research Council of Italy, has a bit of extra help.

“The only thing that works for me is going to the ship’s medic for a scopolamine patch,” he says. “It’s so rough, normal seasickness pills are just to get me to the infirmary.” Although he has it worse than the average tourist – on trips to Antarctica, their research ships have to pause for hours to take samples. “The waves come from all sorts of directions as the thrusters keep it in place,” he says. “When you’re underway it’s a much more regular motion.”

Lonsdale says it’s important not to fight it if you feel ill: “Just go to bed.” But equally, she says, don’t expect it: “It may be calm. You may not feel ill.”

People suffer differently from seasickness she says. “The Pacific has very long, slow swells, Channel crossings [between the UK and France] have quite a bouncy experience. Lots of people say crossing the Drake in very rough weather is uneven enough to not make them ill at all.” On that plate-smashing crossing, for example, this reporter – who was watching 40-foot waves from the observation deck – never got sick.

Remember that however it feels, you’re safe. “There’s an extraordinary level of safety in the build of those ships doing this,” says Lonsdale. Add in the safety margins that the likes of Devorsine build in, and you’re in uncomfortable, but not dangerous, territory.

And if all else fails, remember why you’re there.

“The motivation and excitement to discover those latitudes is very important to fight the seasickness,” says Devorsine. Lonsdale agrees.

“If you were going to the moon, you’d expect the journey to be uncomfortable but it’d be worth it,” she says. “You just have to think, ‘This is what I need to get from one world to another.’”

[fuckyeahfightlock]

Hi Poppy! How was your trip? :D

Ooh, lots of fun! It was hub's and my 25th wedding anniversary trip, the first trip we've taken, just the two of us, since our honeymoon. It was my husband's first trip outside N. America (my second; we're so adventurous).

Edinburgh was lovely as always and I got to visit (twice!) my favourite painting of Achilles Lamenting the Death of Patroclus by Gavin Hamilton.

It's so much more beautiful in person, and I could talk about it all day. Just ask my Facebook friends, they'll tell you that's no lie.

"Enbra" was P A C K E D with tourists, shoulder to shoulder every damn where, but that's to be expected in summer. We took a day trip to Rosslyn Chapel (made famous in The Da Vinci Code, but that's not why we went), visited the National Gallery and the National Museum of Scotland (Dolly the cloned sheep is preserved there, and they have a very good Fashion gallery, including a few items by Alexander McQueen), and took a tour of a whisky distillery (with tasting!). I tried Irn Bru and Monster Munch, both for the first time. We went in Boots once, to get an emery board (my nails all decided to crack, peel, and become snaggly/scratchy for the duration of this trip, it was weird), and there was a DJ! Hilarious. Scottish people are lovely and kind, and no matter how fashionable/dressed up an Edinburgh woman is, she wears sensible shoes. I admire this immensely.

We spent a day in Melrose, Scotland, which is south of Edinburgh in what They call "the Borders" area of the UK. Melrose Abbey was impressive, we had lunch in a very British hotel restaurant (like the one in Fawlty Towers), and experienced how truly dog-mad Scotland is; we met about 60 local dogs and only about 40 local people. I swear you must get a dog with the key to yr flat, there. We also visited a small museum of Roman artifacts from the site of a nearby fort.

Spent one evening/overnight in Berwick-Upon-Tweed, the northernmost town in England--it was still light out at 10:15 when we left the restaurant where we ate dinner--which may be a name familiar to you if you are a fan of my fight!lock stories. Solely because it was a long journey by train from London, and sounded quaint, I sent John there to do some doctoring when he wasn't with Sherlock. Turns out it's the closest place to get a train to London, from Melrose.

London was London-y. We did all the things: the Tower of London, walked the south bank of the Thames, Big Ben/Parliament, stood at the fence of Buckingham Palace awaiting a guard change that never happened, Piccadilly Circus, Trafalgar Square, Borough Market, Camden Market/Camden High Street, V & A Museum, National Gallery.

A definite highlight was seeing Richard III performed by a fantastic all-female cast in Shakespeare's Globe theater. Absolutely recommend seeing Shakespeare at the Globe if you go to London; a completely unique experience.

The weather was H O T and if you ever needed proof that first world countries aren't coping quickly or well with climate change, just ride the London tube, or spend time in almost any indoor space in Britain. There is no air conditioning. It's no wonder heat waves have been killing Britons for the last few summers; the infrastructure is not set up to cope with the temperatures they're getting. We stood aside at one tube station to let cops and medics rush by us to attend to someone who had just been taken off a train and left on the platform (as signage instructs passengers to do) because of fainting from the heat.

There is no such thing as a cold drink in the UK! You can go into a shop and buy a can of Coke or sparkling water, and it is cool, but not cold. When servers heard our accents they would put two ice cubes in our glass at restaurants, but that's not enough. The only truly cold drinks I had there all ten days were gin & tonics, Aperol spritzes, and ciders. Alcohol comes iced; everything else--even the tap water!--just doesn't come cold. It was my only complaint.

Thanks for asking! Great to be home, of course, but it was a lovely ten days.

[distantlaughter]

‘I want to do something significant’: ex-F1 champion Nico Rosberg on his sustainable entrepreneurship

originally published by Joanna Partridge for The Guardian 13 June 2023 (x)

The former elite driver has changed lanes from fossil-fuel-guzzling track cars to green investing and environmentally friendly racing.

In a parallel world, former Formula One world champion Nico Rosberg could be sitting at home in Monaco with his feet up, having set himself up for life, all before the tender age of 32.

After clinching the world championship in 2016, beating his rival Lewis Hamilton in the process, Rosberg shocked the world of motor sport by promptly quitting the pursuit that had been his life since starting competitive racing at the age of six.

Like many sports stars who retire relatively early, he has moved into punditry, commentating for Sky, but unusually he also appears to have effortlessly switched lanes from professional sportsman to entrepreneur, investor and philanthropist.

Sipping sparkling water in a hotel overlooking Hyde Park, the German-Finnish former champion has “got used” to talking about his retirement, despite being just 37. “I am so incredibly lucky,” he admits. “Thanks to the racing, I have financial freedom and I can do whatever I want.”

Despite sporting a tan, relaxed expression and understated navy clothing, Rosberg reveals a glimpse of a sportsman’s inner drive when he explains his motivation: “I want to do something significant, I want to contribute and I want to grow.

“I was always inspired by people who took that entrepreneurial path, investing to support or create something.” He rules out a return to racing, stressing he wants to use “the legacy of that, for my new endeavours”.

Rosberg now employs 15 people to work on his business and investment affairs, and his new endeavours include brand ambassador roles for German energy company EnBW – where he is the face of its electric charging network – and logistics provider Jungheinrich, but he describes himself on professional networking site LinkedIn as a “sustainability entrepreneur and angel investor”.

Rosberg has previously spoken about how he only gained a broader perspective on life after stepping off the international Formula One merry-go-round. Perhaps surprisingly, given his background in a fossil-fuel-guzzling sport, Rosberg now speaks with the zeal of a convert about sustainability and the importance of drawing attention to the climate crisis, something he admits he gave little thought to during his racing career.

This passion led him to found the Greentech festival, along with engineers and entrepreneurs Marco Voigt and Sven Krüger, in 2019. This year’s conference starts on Wednesday in Berlin, and the event is described by the organisers as a “global platform for pioneering and sustainable ideas”.

Rosberg says his wealth has afforded him the luxury to focus on these new interests, including investing in sustainability-focused startups, while also creating an endowment for his “grandchildren” (he and his wife’s two children are seven and five).

Indeed, one reason for this trip to London was a meeting with charitable foundation the Wellcome Trust, one of the UK’s largest philanthropic investors, known for its track record of impressive financial returns.

Forbes puts Rosberg’s net worth at just over $20m (£16m), although this seems a conservative estimate, given the earning power of the world’s elite racing drivers. He admits to having “software” that provides him with an exact figure, but will not be drawn on what that is, other than adding: “The top F1 driver earns $40m a year.”

Another of his ventures presumably comes with the need for deep pockets: He owns Rosberg X Racing, a team in the new environmentally conscious motor sport Extreme E. Now in its third season, the series sees electric off-road SUVs race in different locations around the globe that have been affected by the climate crisis.

The teams, each comprising a male and a female driver, are racing this season across five locations, from Saudi Arabia to Scotland, and Italy to the Americas. In an effort to limit their environmental impact, the series’ vehicles, logistics equipment and infrastructure are shipped, rather than flown, around the world aboard the St Helena, a former Royal Mail ship. The races are televised, but take place without spectators.

Rosberg’s team, now third in the standings, is sponsored by IG Prime, a division of financial brokerage IG, among others, and is considered an evolution of Team Rosberg, the motor sport outfit founded in the 1990s by his father, Keke. Other Extreme E team founders include Hamilton and former British Formula One driver Jenson Button.

The series claimed a global audience of 135 million in 2022, more than 30% up on viewership during its inaugural season. However, this pales into insignificance compared with Formula One, riding high and growing its fanbase, especially in the US.

Rosberg hopes Extreme E entertains viewers, while getting them to “do their part, and contribute, and think about their own lives” amid the climate crisis.

Rosberg says his own car is an all-electric Audi e-tron, extolling the virtues of the charging network in mainland Europe – and says he does not “like it any more” if he is collected by a fossil fuel-powered car when travelling abroad. He also says he takes the train in Germany, but skirts over whether he flies by private jet.

His focus on sustainability extends to his investment portfolio, which does not contain any oil, tobacco or defence companies. However, he is at something of a loss to explain the involvement in Extreme E of Saudi Arabia, which hosted the first race of the season, but is also the world’s biggest producer of fossil fuels, and home to the world’s biggest oil company, Saudi Aramco, which is 95% government-owned. “I would understand that there are some people, where it doesn’t sit too well with them,” Rosberg says. “All our partners in Extreme E are allowing us to do a lot of good, which we are very grateful for.

“Sometimes you need to go out there a little bit to do a lot of good.”

After the regimented existence of his early years, where his job determined his timetable, Rosberg clearly relishes being his own boss. He vociferously rules out a future return to Formula One, whether as a driver or running a team: “Never, ever, ever, because I value my freedom,” he says. “It was very intense.”

Rosberg still watches all the Formula One races but confesses the experience is not relaxing: “When the lights go off, I imagine I’m there.”

Few would imagine that investing could produce the same high, but he insists he has other ways to get his adrenaline fix: “In business, and on the tennis court.”

CV

Age: 37

Family: Married, with two young children

Education: International School of Monaco

Pay: Undisclosed. “My income comes from representing brands, I am the face of the biggest electric [vehicle] charging infrastructure in Germany from EnBW, and Jungheinrich, the logistics mobility provider. That is one important source of income for me.” He says his income comes from representing brands, his investments in startups yet to deliver significant returns.

Last holiday: Ibiza, where his family has a holiday home and owns an ice-cream parlour. “It’s our favourite place to go.”

Best advice he’s been given: “My father said: ‘You always meet twice in life.’”

Biggest career mistake: “Investing into a great idea, but where the founders were not 100% convincing.”

Word he overuses: “Big bang,” according to his assistant Lena. He adds: “We talk about building reputation … I like to think in ‘big bang’ stories, such as winning the Extreme E championship.”

How he relaxes: Playing tennis; “I am average good.”

[magz]

Palestine News Summary from LetsTalkPalestine May 16 to May 25, 2024. Related Helpful Links: [LetsTalkPalestine Links (including vetted information sources)] [gazafunds.com] [eSims for Gaza] [UNRWA] [Decolonize Palestine, learning basics and debunking myths] (Remember: In supporting Palestine and Palestinians, you are not alone. The people of the world united and in solidarity. Starting as small as one nudge and reminder, yet as big as the globe. To help one person, to help one family, to help one peoples, to help all who need to be unshackled. All help. From the River To The Sea, Palestine Will Be Free.)

Palestine News Summary Quote, below.

May 16:

Day 223

🔻 Israeli army suffers in invasion of Jabalia (north Gaza) as Palestinian fighters resist. At least 5 IOF soldiers killed + 15 injured in battles in last 24 hours. Palestinian fighters attacked 4 Israeli tanks at command centers, incapacitated army bulldozers & sniped 1 IOF soldier

• 39 Palestinians killed, 64 Palestinians injured in Gaza in the last 24 hours

‼️ Besieged Beit Hanoun receives no food & water for 5th day since Jabalia invasion. WFP suspends operations amid border seizure in Rafah. Limited supplies enter Gaza via Karem Abu Salem crossing

🇱🇧 Hezbollah launches first-ever drone strike, injuring 3 IOF soldiers in 13 attacks on the IOF Metula base + struck IOF intelligence aircraft

• Israeli attacks on densely populated Jabalia kill 4 incl. pregnant woman

⚖️ ICJ hears South African request for orders for Israeli withdrawal from Rafah; Israel to address court tomorrow

• Israel releases 76 Gazan hostages, forced them to walk across Gaza in dire conditions

May 17.

Day 224

🇪🇸 Spain will refuse all ships carrying weapons to Israel to dock at Spanish ports after denying 1st ship yesterday

• 31 Palestinians killed, 56 Palestinians injured in Gaza in last 24 hours

🇱🇧 Israel assassinated Hamas official in airstrike on car in Lebanon, injuring 2. Earlier bombing killed Hezbollah member + 2 kids

• Israeli tanks & jets escalate bombardment & demolition of infrastructure in Jabalia amid invasion, killing 6+ as many still under rubble

🇪🇬 Egypt deploys military convoys at Gaza border amid rising tensions over Rafah invasion & Israeli seizure of Rafah crossing. Egypt warns normalization treaty w/ Israel at risk & considers downgrading relations w/ Israel

🇹🇷 Israel to abolish free trade agreement w/ Turkey & impose 100% tariff on imports in response to Turkey banning exports

• West Bank: Israel bombs Jenin, killing commander of Jenin Brigades (local resistance group), injuring 2 others. IOF killed 1 Palestinian in Tulkarem.

May 18.

Day 225

🔻 Hamas says it killed 5 IOF soldiers in eastern Rafah today + attacked tanks, helicopters. Hamas claims 100 attacks on IOF vehicles in last 10 days

•⁠ ⁠83 Palestinians killed, 105 injured in Gaza in last 24 hours

•⁠ Israeli attack kills ⁠22, injures 30+ near Kamel Adwan Hospital in Gaza

🇨🇦 Canada sanctions 4 Israeli settlers in the West Bank over abuses

•⁠ ⁠Israel escalates bombing, killing 4 in Khan Younis & 4 in central Gaza

❗️ Ex-Mossad deputy chief says Israel losing ”war”

•⁠ ⁠Israeli bombing kills 8+ incl. women & children & injures 10 while fetching water

•⁠ Attack on evacuation center in Jabalia invasion kill 15. IOF advances Rafah invasion, attacking car killing 1, injuring others

🚚 Israel let only 33 aid trucks in Gaza since May 6

🇨🇭 Zurich police fire rubber bullets + pepper spray at students at university Gaza protest

🇦🇹 Austria to resume UNRWA funding, the 9th to resume. US, UK & others still frozen

[No May 19 summary]

(image: map of ICC member and signatories that must abide by new ruling)

‼️ International Criminal Court seeks arrest warrants for Israeli & Hamas officials

ICC Chief Prosecutor applied for warrants for Netanyahu & Defence Minister Gallant + Hamas leaders Sinwar, Haniyeh & AlDeif for several war crimes & crimes against humanity.

If judges approve, they’d be the first-ever ICC arrest warrants for Western leaders — a milestone in ending Western impunity.

It’d obligate all ICC member states (🗺️👆) to arrest them if they entered their territory. This’d make it extremely difficult for Netanyahu & Gallant to visit allies like EU states, Canada & Jordan. But Hamas leaders — already blacklisted by the West — would be practically unaffected.

🇳🇱 Arrested suspects are tried by the ICC in the Netherlands.

The warrants may mark a new stage in Israel’s diplomatic and political isolation, straining Western ties & legitimizing arguments of Israeli criminality which may fuel more divestment & sanctions.

It’s also a clear threat to other Israeli officials & IOF soldiers.

May 20.

Day 227

‼️ Israel bombards north Gaza amid invasion of Jabalia, killing 18 in airstrikes on Jabalia & Beit Lahia. ⁠⁠Only 2 functioning hospitals in north Gaza: Al-Awda Hospital is besieged, out of drinking water & tanks bulldoze its vicinity, blocking patients & staff from leaving. Kamal Adwan Hospital oxygen machine power outage killed 1 child

•⁠ 106 Palestinians killed, 176 injured in Gaza in last 24 hours

•⁠ Recently released 30 y/o hostage & cancer patient Farouk al-Khatib killed after Israeli medical negligence in captivity

⚖️ US, UK, Italy & Germany condemn ICC arrest warrants for Israeli leaders. Hamas condemns being equated with Israel.👆 More info above

•⁠ ⁠40% (900,000) of Gaza population recently displaced including 810,000 who fled Rafah since invasion

•⁠ ⁠Israeli forces executed 2 Palestinians by opening fire on crowd at Israeli-made corridor in central Gaza that restricts Palestinians moving from north to south Gaza.

🚚 Only 69 UN aid trucks enter south Gaza from May 6-19

May 21 (part 1).

🚨 Jenin massacre (instagram news link)

Israeli forces stormed Jenin in the West Bank this morning at 8am (👆🎥), and the ongoing assault has become one of Jenin’s deadliest raids.

Israeli soldiers have shot and killed at least 7 Palestinian civilians, including Dr. Osaid Jabareen, the head of surgery at Jenin Hospital, a teacher walking to work, & 9th grade student. So far 12 people injured mostly by live bullets, incl. 4 kids, a journalist & paramedic

Israeli forces blocked the injured & staff from entering hospitals. An Israeli sniper shot at anyone moving near Khalil Suleiman Hospital, fired at people in vicinity of Jenin Hospital & blocked ambulances

Israeli forces stormed the home of a 50-year-old woman, destroyed the home then abducted her. Meanwhile, bulldozers raze the city, demolishing infrastructure, streets & cars

Ongoing fierce clashes between Jenin Bridages (local resistance group) & IOF as resistance fighters fire explosives at Israeli tanks.

May 21 (part 2).

Day 228

‼️⚖️ Norway the 1st country to say it’ll arrest Netanyahu if ICC warrant issued

•⁠ 85 Palestinians killed, 200 injured in Gaza in last 24 hours

🔻 Hamas claims it killed 5 IOF soldiers in north Gaza w/ grenade & sniped IOF soldier at Israeli corridor separating north & south Gaza

🇺🇳 UNRWA shuts down 2 health facilities in Rafah due to Israeli evacuation order + suspended aid operations in Rafah as aid running out since seizure of Rafah crossing

•⁠ 4 killed incl. an infant in Israeli attack on home in Gaza City

📺 Israel seized @ apnews camera & broadcasting equipment, cutting its Gaza live feed. Later reversed decision after US & global backlash

🚚 Israeli forces share intel to settlers on locations of aid trucks for Gaza, facilitating settler attacks on trucks

🏥 Israel attacked Kamal Adwan Hospital 4 times (largest functioning hospital in north Gaza) as IOF fired at the gates, hitting ICU, reception area & roof. 20 staff & 13 patients trapped inside

May 22.

Day 229

🇪🇸🇮🇪🇳🇴 Spain, Ireland & Norway to recognize State of Palestine within a week. Recognition limited to West Bank & Gaza

• 62 Palestinians killed, 138 injured in Gaza in last 24 hours

🏥 Footage shows Israeli forces abducting 100+ Palestinian bodies from Shifa Hospital’s mass graves

• Israeli attacks kill 6 in north Gaza. 17+ killed incl. kids & 20+ injured in central Gaza. No functional health services anymore in north & central Gaza

🔻 Fierce clashes ongoing in Rafah between resistance fighters & IOF soldiers as Israeli tanks advance. Israel admits 3 soldiers killed & 2 injured

• Death toll in ongoing Jenin raid rises to 11 including 4 teenagers. Settler attacks continue in West Bank’s Nablus

🇬🇧⚖️ Legal group (ICJP) submits war crimes complaint to Scotland Yard accusing 5 UK ministers of complicity in Israel’s starvation warfare

🇨🇴 Colombia to open embassy to Palestine in Ramallah (West Bank)

May 23.

Day 230

🏥 Al-Awda Hospital in north Gaza forced to close after 4-day siege. IOF expelled medical staff on foot, forced to abandon their patients. Al-Aqsa Hospital to run out of fuel imminently, putting hundreds of dialysis patients & incubator babies at risk

•⁠ 91 Palestinians killed, 21 injured in Gaza in last 24 hours

🇳🇴🇪🇸🇮🇪 Israeli foreign minister reprimanded ambassadors of Norway, Spain & Ireland for decision to recognise Palestine

•⁠ ⁠Israeli overnight attack on Gaza City killed 16 incl. 10 kids. 8 killed in attack on Nuseirat camp

🎓 UK police arrest 12 students at Oxford University for Palestine sit-in (@ oxact4pal)

•⁠ Israeli forces invade Beit Hanoon (north) in escalation of Jabalia invasion, Israeli sniper executed Palestinian in the head

🔻 30 Israeli soldiers injured in past 2 days

•⁠ IOF shot 2 kids in the foot & hand near Apartheid Wall (West Bank)

🇱🇧 Hezbollah claims destroyed Israeli tank after Israeli strike killed Hezbollah official & injured 3 kids in school bus

May 24 (part 1).

[Context: original old ICJ post from LetsTalkPalestine]

🚨 ICJ orders Israel to end Rafah invasion

After a new South African request, the ICJ ordered Israel to immediately halt its invasion of Rafah and to withdraw. Here’s what else it said:

1️⃣ Its January orders were inadequate for the current situation which risks irreparable damage to the rights of Palestinians in Gaza

2️⃣ Israeli measures for Rafah evacuation are insufficient, and the humanitarian situation is "disastrous”

3️⃣ Israel must allow investigations into allegations of genocide

4️⃣ The court implied that the offensive may inflict conditions calculated to cause the physical destruction of Palestinians in Gaza — notably, this phrasing is the legal language used to describe an act of genocide

5️⃣ Demanded the immediate reopening of the Rafah crossing for humanitarian aid

🇺🇸 Though these orders are legally binding, the ICJ has no enforcement power — only the UN Security Council can enforce them, and the US would likely veto

Does this mean the ICJ is useless? 🤔 Not exactly. See the last 3 slides of our post above 👆 from January explaining how we need to use tactical victories to end this genocide and free Palestine. No court can free Palestine. Only a people’s movement can.

May 24.

Day 231

‼️ Al-Aqsa Hospital generators shut down from lack of fuel causing power outages leaving most equipment unusable, putting many at risk incl. 20 newborns as oxygen generators will run out

•⁠ 57 Palestinians killed, 282 injured in last 24 hours

🇪🇬 Egypt to finally open their side of Karem Abu Salem crossing for UN aid. Only 906 aid trucks entered Gaza from May 7-23 as Israel seized Palestinian side of Rafah crossing which Egypt won’t reopen unless legal agreement w/ Israel

🇪🇸 Israel bans Spanish consulate from servicing Palestinians in West Bank after Spain said it’ll recognize the state of Palestine

•⁠ Israel expands Rafah invasion as tanks advance into crowded areas in central & west Rafah + bombing across the city

🔻 Hamas strikes 3 IOF tanks & seriously injured IOF soldier in north Gaza

•⁠ Israeli strikes on homes in north Gaza killed 7. Israel bombed aid storage house in Deir al-Balah killing 12+

•⁠ IOF bulldoze infrastructure & storm homes in raid on Balata (West Bank)

[rabbitcruiser]

World Toilet Day

World Toilet Day…at first glance, this seems like an unlikely candidate for a holiday and more like some sort of joke, but the day is nowhere as trivial or humorous as it may seem. All in all, it strives to draw attention to various sanitation issues around the world and work towards resolving them.

Despite access to proper sanitation being declared a basic human right, one in three people across the globe, so some 2.5 billion people in total, do not have regular access to a toilet. Additionally, even amongst those who do have such access, unclean and unsafe toilets pose problems of their own, including contributing towards the spread of diseases like cholera, typhoid and hepatitis—in some parts of Africa, diarrhea is one of the main child-killers.

Open defecation is also responsible for increasing the number of sexual assaults perpetrated on women and children. Furthermore, when young girls begin menstruating, the lack of privacy forces them to stay home from school, thus limiting their chances of getting a basic education and, what comes after that, a decent job in the future. World Toilet Day’s ultimate goal is to allow everyone on the planet to take care of their most basic needs without having to fear for their safety.

History of World Toilet Day

World Toilet Day was created by the World Toilet Organization in 2001. Secretary-General Ban Ki-moon of the United Nations said: “We have a moral imperative to end open defecation and a duty to ensure women and girls are not at risk of assault and rape simply because they lack a sanitation facility.”

He went on to talk about how having to defecate openly infringes on human safety and dignity, and how women and girls risk rape and abuse as they wait until night falls to relieve themselves because they lack of access to a toilet that offers privacy. Another issue is that toilets generally remain inadequate for populations with special needs, such as the disabled and elderly.

Since its inception, World Toilet Day has played a vital role in challenging governments, businesses and other groups to make changes. It has also worked towards breaking various taboos surrounding the topic, in order to facilitate discussion and lead to the creation of better, safer solutions.

World Toilet Day Timeline

3000 BC Pipes carry waste

Even a few thousand years ago various people groups (in Scotland, India, Mesopotamia and more) would use pipe systems to carry waste out of their houses and into rivers or streams.

100-200 AD Group toilets for soldiers

Remains of Housesteads Roman Fort at Hadrian’s Wall in the UK reveals that perhaps 20 or more soldiers would all use a common ‘toilet’ (essentially these were long benches with holes in them) at the same time.

Middle Ages (500-1500 AD) Garderobes are used

Predating the toilet, “garderobes” were little rooms that hung over the sides of the castle. This little closet had a bench with a hole in it where the waste would drop into a moat or pit below.

During this time, many people would also use chamber pots, which would be kept in bedrooms or ‘chambers’ and then emptied (sometimes simply thrown out the window) when full. This function carried on for quite some time.

1596 Flushing toilet is invented

Although its widespread use did not arrive until a couple of centuries later, the first flushing toilet was described by Sir John Harington, an English courtier. This toilet was a pot that used gravity to feed water through it from a cistern that sat upstairs.

1775 First toilet patent issued

Scottish Inventor Alexander Cummings was the creator of the important pipe that ran in an S-shape below the bowl. This ingenious design used the water in the bowl to seal off the sewer gas from below and eventually led the way to mass production of the toilet.

1829 First toilets in a hotel

The Tremont Hotel in Boston, USA installed eight indoor water closets for its guests.

1866 World’s first bathroom showroom

Marlboro Works showroom is opened by English sanitary engineer Thomas Crapper (yes, that’s his real name). At a time when people didn’t speak much about their bodily functions, this public display of toilets was revolutionary.

1880s Thomas Crapper invents the ballcock

Toilets that have this invention, the “ballcock”, are less likely to overflow. Crapper created the floating valve as well as eight other patented improvements for plumbing and sewage. He also did a lot of plumbing for British royalty around this time. 

1910 Elevated water tank

A similar design to today’s toilets, the closed water tank and bowl moves into common use.

1986 Sensor flushes introduced

In Japan, the first toilets with sensors that would flush on their own were used.

2001 World Toilet Organization is created

The World Toilet Organization moves to educate people about the sanitation crisis.  Even in today’s modern times, more than 2 billion people across the world still do not have access to a toilet.

2013 World Toilet Day made official by the UN

In an effort to raise awareness and support for places where people don’t have proper access to sanitation, the first UN World Toilet Day is celebrated on November 19, 2013.

How to celebrate World Toilet Day

I think by now it’s been made abundantly clear that World Toilet Day is far from being a joke, dealing instead with the protection of one of humanity’s most basic rights. So how can you help? There are a number of things you could do. For starters, why not visit the World Toilet Day website, Facebook page or Twitter account and share the message across social media platforms?

This may seem like a tiny, unimportant gesture, but raising awareness about serious problems is one of the things social media does best, aside from bombarding you with pictures of babies and kittens. The more people know about a problem, the more money can be raised to fight it, as the ALS Ice Bucket Challenge so perfectly demonstrated. So don’t think your clicking “share” means anything. It doesn’t.

Another thing you could do as a way of observing World Toilet Day Would be of course to make a donation, so if you have the means, know that every dollar helps.

Source

[pedriscroquettes]

Hi i DONT really have that huge of a platform or anything so I just wanted to anonymously put this here(i know you don’t support Israel but I feel like the dumb bitches who do need to hear this)

#Free Palestine

I actually laugh sooo hard when people say “free Isrnotreal” like from what? From the endless amount of money that they get from us and uk tax payers??? Like actual jokers.

Also can we talk about them annoying mfs who say “i have boycott fatigue that’s why i got my Starbucks water” like it’s literally filtered water with eyes in a cup you can make it home like you’re buying overpriced water like you’re soo lucky to have that imagine the millions of people all around the globe that don’t even have access too CLEAN drinking water.

Also I hate HATE this one girl who’s my friend rn for many reasons but also like one time she brought a Coca-Cola to school and I said that they support Israel and she said “omg i guess I should try and make the formula to home like I’m so sorry for buying a drink I don’t know how me not getting Coca-Cola is going to help Gaza” so like now everytime she mentions any brand that supports Israel she turns to me and goes “omg sorry i forgot they Support Israel🤭 it’s just SO hard not to have..” like imagine how hard it is for the people IN GAZA like shellfish bitch.

Also if you’re still a Noah Schnapp fan you man fucking suck bro how are you going to support a 19 year old seeing someone wrote “stop genocide” and putting a “Zionism is sexy” sticker on it like ewww

If.you.still.buying.from.brands.that.support.Israel.you.are.supporting.a.genocide

Zionism is not sexy.

Saying “from the river to the sea” is NOT anti-Semitic at all

We all grew up being told about the holocaust and how bad it was and we always used to wonder “why didn’t anyone say anything”

This will be the same thing for people in the future when they think about this so do you want it to be on you that you never even attempted to try and help.

Your voice matters

Your opinion matters

Put pressure on your governments

Put pressure on these big franchises and conglomerates (e.g. Disney and Starbucks)

If we all pitch in we can strain them to the point where they have to listen

Emailto your local governors and mps

Be the change you want to see

‼️‼️‼️‼️

– anon send me the addy and i will beat tf out of that girl 😭😭. imagine not being able to live without coke or overpriced coffee. FREE PALESTINE 🇵🇸

– also if you’re latino and you somehow still don’t support palestine this is your reminder that whatever problems your country is facing has at some point most likely been supported by isnotreal!!

[pulseintlradio]

Summer heat and HOTNOTIC Neo2Soul grooves. Welcome music listeners around the globe! Enjoy your day with DJ Niceness Neo2soul Playlist The Vibes (Female Takeover). Maintain your calm, drink plenty of water, and take in another Neo2Soul Playlist musical ecstasy. Beginning at 4 PM EST and 9 PM UK time. The Listening Experience. 𝐖𝐏𝐔𝐑-𝐃𝐁 𝐏𝐔𝐋𝐒𝐄 𝐈𝐍𝐓'𝐋 𝐑𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐎 www.pulseintlradio.com

[undeadgoathead]

Love her or hate her, Barbie is iconic. I have no clue why she was stereotyped as an airheaded bimbo, when canonically she has been a doctor, astronaut, scientist, etc. Like most girls, I have fond memories of playing dolls with friends, and not-so-fond memories of siblings, cousins, etc ruining my toys, cutting their hair, covering them with mud, tattooing them with sharpies, etc.

In girl scouts, I remember each troop had to represent a different country/culture for world tolerance day or some such. So our project was singing the Barbie song in German! I still kinda remember the lyrics. 🎼Ich bin ein Barbie frau, en einer Barbie velt...🎶

On a side note, I also remember our troop representing the UK one year, because I was obsessed with The Beatles and JRR Tolkien. Good times, good times. I was a weird, nerdy kid, and I haven't changed much over the years. This is kinda embarrassing, but I played with dolls well into middle school. What can I say, I loved making up stories in my own imaginary fantasy world. Still kind of do, as a writer.

I had a Pocahontas Barbie... Hip to be Square Barbie...Of course I had the mermaid that changed the color of her hair and tail, depending on if the water was hot or cold...I had a slumber party Barbie with a soft body like a stuffed animal, so you could snuggle in bed. She also came with accessories like an inflatable chair, a box of pizza, a houseplant, and a globe. Perfect for 90s sleepovers!

One Christmas, I was gifted a special edition millennium Barbie for the year 2000. I was too young to understand collectibles, all I knew was it was the prettiest doll I'd ever seen, with her fancy gold dress and matching Christmas ornaments, and couldn't wait to play with it, so I didn't understand why everyone was so shocked when I opened the box and did just that.

I had a few of the Mattel pets, including a fluffy white cat, and a fancy Collie dog. Of course I had the sparkly white unicorn/pegasus horse with wings AND a horn, and a long pretty mane and tail that you could brush, braid, and style. I had a ton of horses in general. Including My Little Pony. And lots of dolls, not just Barbie, but also Polly Pocket, random stuffed animals, etc. Another random sidenote... I remember I used to watch a lot of PBS as a kid... I was fascinated by The Nightly Business Report... So I had my own version, The Nightly Horse Report, and all the new anchors, journalists, and correspondents were horses... Facepalm. 🤦🏽‍♀️

But in high school, I was an edgy, angsty teenager. I rejected Barbie as a sexist symbol of rigid gender roles and corporate greed. One of my aquaintances had dismembered Barbie body parts dangling from her backpack, which I thought was pretty cool. I also took the Barbies from a classmate's diorama when they didn't want them anymore. I don't know what book they were reading in the other Senior AP Literature Class, but it must have been a dark one, because the Barbies were scantily clad in plain white robes/togas, their hands were bound, they were blindfolded, and they were hanging from nooses. Yeah. Yikes. Anyway I used them for home decor in my college dorm, and even in my first apartment. Like I said, I only seem to get even weirder and creepier with age!

Then again, when I was a bratty teenage girl, my idea of feminism was misguided. In retrospect, I actually embodied a lot of internalized misogyny and toxic femininity myself. Joining the GSA (Gay Straight Alliance), poetry club, yearbook, and other extracurricular activities helped me keep an open mind and learn better social skills. But still, one of my favorite computer games at that age, was called Feed the Model, where you crash a haute couture high society fashion catwalk, and you throw tomatoes and other food at the model, hoping some of it lands in her mouth and she'll finally eat something for once, lol. Yes it was hilarious, but also problematic. I also frequented several feminist websites, including About Face and Adios Barbie. Again, I meant well, but the misandry was a little bit hypocritical.

Just like the Barbie brand is taking affirmative action to be more inclusive, I also eventually outgrew my "Hear me roar" phase, and embraced a more modern, intersectional sort of feminism and gender equality. Including a shameless appreciation for girly hobbies, such as dolls. Even in college, a roommate gave me a special Bjork Barbie with a handmade dress, custom haircut, and face painted with nail polish. He customized it himself, and it looked awesome and unique! Again, that Bjork Barbie remained dorm/apartment decor well into my mid twenties.

Now I'm in my 30s. I work at an antique store, and I do sell expensive vintage collectible Barbies to wealthy connoisseurs, as well as the cheap ones to little kids who only have a few bucks of allowance to buy used toys from secondhand thrift stores. So Barbie is still very much a part of my life on a daily basis. Grown adults pay hundreds of dollars for the right doll. I've had deep conversations with coworkers and customers about the magic of imagination, the nostalgic sense of wonder, and the simplicity yet complexity of children at play.

So I'm totally going to see that freaking Barbie movie, damn it! Who's coming with me?