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scotianostra · 2 years ago

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Sometimes there are details missing, or conflicting when I put together posts, it is the former with this one, there is no birthdate, but John Macgregor was christened on the 24th August 1802 at Fintry, he would go on to establish a shipbuilding yard on the River Clyde and do much to pioneer the development of iron ships.

John claimed that he was descended from Rob Roy MacGregor. The text in his biography reads The text reads: "Through my mother I am descended from Rob Roy. My mother was a daughter (of) Donald McGregor great grandson of James Mor the son of Rob who died in Paris….”

The family were incomers to Fintry, having moved from Balfron. They remained there for about 14 years, before moving on to Comrie in Perthshire, where the last two of their eight children were born. The stay in Comrie must have been short, although John received a rudimentary education there. When John was 16, the whole family came to Glasgow.

Macgregor began his apprenticeship as an engineer under David Napier at Camlachie. He went to Lancefield Foundry with the others in 1821 and was a sea-going engineer on the Belfast – which had Napier machinery – while still in his early 20s. The Belfast plied between Liverpool and Dublin, and was one of the earliest steamers to cross the Irish Sea. At David Napier’s he made the acquaintance of David Tod. Together, they ran the engineering department for a while and gained considerable managerial experience during this period. They probably also acted as guarantee engineers from time to time.

In 1833, Macgregor and David Tod formed a partnership to build steam engines. The partnership, Tod and Macgregor, was initially based at Carrick Street, Glasgow in 1834. The business grew quickly and moved to larger premises in Worroch Street, where they added boiler making to their engineering activities.

Towards the end of 1836, Tod and Macgregor opened a shipbuilding yard on the south bank of the River Clyde at Mavisbank. Finally, in 1845, the firm moved to a new purpose built yard at Meadowside in the Borough of Partick. Tod and Macgregor were described as "the fathers of iron shipbuilding on the Clyde", building famous ships such as the City of Glasgow and the City of Paris.

In about 1830, he is assumed to have married Margaret Fleming, the daughter of Margaret Biggar and James Fleming. Together they had seven children, of whom three daughters and two sons survived. In September 1848 his wife died at the age of 39, the cause of her death is not known. He went on to marry Margaret York, the daughter of Janet Masterton and William York, at Barony, Glasgow. Together they had two children.

In around 1874, after the deaths of both David Tod and John Macgregor, the shipbuilding business was sold and renamed as D. and W. Henderson and Company

John Macgregor died on 16th September 1858 from constipation, I must say it is the first time I have come across this as a cause of death, a condition that is so easily treated today. He is buried at Glasgow Necropolis.

When his funeral cortege took place, beginning at North Street, Anderston, the shops in Partick were closed, the route was lined with thousands of spectators with 'grieved countenances', the bells of the city churches were tolled from 2- to 3 o'clock’, and the flags in the harbour and on the shipping were at half-mast.

His obituary states: "At the comparatively early age of 57, in the full flush and vigour of his mature manhood, after an illness of only three days, of constipation of the bowels, Mr Macgregor departed this life, at half past eleven o'clock on Thursday night, at his town residence, Meadowside House, Partick.

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nightsidewrestling · 2 years ago

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D.U.D.E Bios: Ivor Rhydderch

The Ogre Prince of C.R.C Ivor Rhydderch (2020)

Kirby's cousin, Hywel's nephew, and Rhodri's son, Ivor. An Irish-Catholic living in Wales and a gentle and honest father. He tries his hardest to ignore his brothers pranks.

"Go be gross somewhere else."

Name

Full Legal Name: Ivor Lonán Dylan Brian Rhydderch

First Name: Ivor

Meaning: From the Old Norse name 'Ívarr', which was probably derived from the elements 'Ýr' 'Yew tree, Bow' and 'Herr' 'Army, Warrior'

Pronunciation: IE-var

Origin: Irish, Scottish, Welsh, English

Middle Name(s): Lonán, Dylan, Brian

Meaning(s): Lonán: Means 'Little Blackbird', derived from Old Irish 'Lon' 'Blackbird' combined with a diminutive suffix. Dylan: From the Welsh prefi 'Dy' meaning 'To, Toward' and 'Llanw' meaning 'Tide, Flow' Brian: Meaning Uncertain, possibly related to the Old Celtic root 'Brixs' 'Hill, High' (Old Irish 'Brii') or the related 'Brigā' 'Might, Power' (Old Irish 'Briig')

Pronunciation(s): LUW-nan. DUL-an. BRIE-an

Origin(s): Irish, Old Irish. Welsh, English, Welsh Mythology. English, Irish, Old Irish

Surname: Rhydderch

Meaning: From the given name 'Rhydderch', from the Old Welsh name 'Riderch', derived from 'Ri' 'King' and 'Derch' 'Exalted'

Pronunciation: HRUDH-ehrkh

Origin: Welsh

Alias: Ogre Prince, Ivor Rhydderch

Reason: This is Ivor's ring name

Nicknames: Ivo, Bri

Titles: Mr

Characteristics

Age: 35

Gender: Male. He/Him Pronouns

Race: Human

Nationality: Welsh. Irish-Welsh Mix. Dual Citizenship ROI-UK

Ethnicity: White

Birth Date: November 25th 1985

Symbols: Ogres, Ogresses, Crowns

Sexuality: Heterosexual

Religion: Irish-Catholic

Native Language: Welsh

Spoken Languages: Welsh, Irish, Scottish (Scots Gaelic), English

Relationship Status: Married

Astrological Sign: Sagittarius

Theme Song: 'Jesse James' - The Pogues (2003-)

Voice Actor: Aidan Turner

Geographical Characteristics

Birthplace: Tullahought, Kilkenny, Ireland

Current Location: Llanfaethlu, Anglesey, Wales

Hometown: Llanfaethlu, Anglesey, Wales

Appearance

Height: 6'2" / 187 cm

Weight: 300 lbs / 136 kg

Eye Colour: Blue

Hair Colour: Ginger

Hair Dye: None

Body Hair: Hairy

Facial Hair: Clean Shaven

Tattoos: (As of Jan 2020) 20

Piercings: Ear Lobes (Both)

Scars: No Noticeable Scars

Health and Fitness

Allergies: None

Alcoholic, Smoker, Drug User: Smoker, Social Drinker

Illnesses/Disorders: None Diagnosed

Medications: None

Any Specific Diet: None

Relationships

Allies: (As of Jan 2020) The Rhydderch Clan

Enemies: (As of Jan 2020) None

Friends: Jarlath Rhydderch, Patrick Rhydderch, Lochlainn Rhydderch, Uilliam Rhydderch, Sean Rhydderch, Wyn Rhydderch, Vaughan Rhydderch, Neifion Rhydderch, Roderick Rhydderch, Flann Rhydderch, Heath Ott, Urbano Marino, Zacarías Huerta, Donato Santos

Colleagues: The C.R.C Locker Rooms / Too Many To List

Rivals: None

Closest Confidant: Oneida Rhydderch

Mentor: Rhodri Rhydderch

Significant Other: Oneida Rhydderch (36, Wife, Née Richelieu)

Previous Partners: None of Note

Parents: Rhodri Rhydderch (77, Father), Grania Rhydderch (78, Mother, Née Mac Ghabhann)

Parents-In-Law: Carbrey Richelieu (56, Father-In-Law), Aran Richelieu (57, Mother-In-Law, Née Cullen)

Siblings: Fionn Rhydderch (47, Brother), Aisling O'Hannigan (44, Sister, Née Rhydderch), Caoimhe O'Hannegan (41, Sister, Née Rhydderch), Uilliam Rhydderch (38, Brother), Eithne O'Hannagan (32, Sister, Née Rhydderch)

Siblings-In-Law: Unity Rhydderch (48, Fionn's Wife, Née Sauvageon), Keaton O'Hannigan (45, Aisling's Husband), Cadell O'Hannegan (42, Caoimhe's Husband), Whitney Rhydderch (39, Uilliam's Wife, Née Sauvageau), Januarius O'Hannagan (33, Eithne's Husband)

Nieces & Nephews: Rachel MacGregor (27, Niece, Née Rhydderch), Bruce MacGregor (28, Rachel's Husband), Queen MacEntire (24, Niece, Née Rhydderch), Coinneach MacGregor (25, Queen's Husband), Pace Rhydderch (21, Nephew), Urve Rhydderch (22, Pace's Wife, Née MacEalair), Odin Rhydderch (18, Nephew), Naomh Rhydderch (15, Niece), Macy Rhydderch (12, Niece), Comhghall Rhydderch (9, Nephew), Kaiser Rhydderch (6, Nephew), Jacinth Rhydderch (3, Niece), Ida Scott (24, Niece, Née O'Hannigan), Cillian Scott (25, Ida's Husband), Hale O'Hannigan (21, Nephew), Briallen O'Hannigan (22, Hale's Wife, Née Sangster), Faith O'Hannigan (15, Niece), Eartha O'Hannigan (12, Niece), Dagda O'Hannigan (9, Nephew), Cade O'Hannigan (6, Nephew), Bambi O'Hannigan (3, Niece), Aaliyah Wallace (21, Niece, Née O'Hannigan), Matháin Wallace (22, Aaliyah's Husband), Zayden O'Hannegan (18, Nephew), Yorick O'Hannegan (15, Nephew), Xavia O'Hannegan (12, Niece), Wednesday O'Hannegan (9, Niece), Vance O'Hannegan (6, Nephew), Uhtric O'Hannegan (3, Nephew), Tacey Rhydderch (18, Niece), Sadb Rhydderch (15, Niece), Raeburn Rhydderch (12, Nephew), Quirinus Rhydderch (9, Nephew), Paisley Rhydderch (6, Niece), Olive Rhydderch (3, Niece), Iain O'Hannagan (12, Nephew), Haidee O'Hannagan (9, Niece), Garnet O'Hannagan (6, Niece), Fabius O'Hannagan (3, Nephew)

Children: Napoleon Rhydderch (15, Son), Macdara Rhydderch (12, Son), Lalla Rhydderch (9, Daughter), Kayleen Rhydderch (6, Daughter), James Rhydderch (3, Son)

Children-In-Law: None

Grandkids: None

Great Grandkids: None

Wrestling

Billed From: Kilkenny, Ireland

Trainer: The C.R.C Wrestling School, Rhodri Rhydderch

Managers: Oneida Rhydderch

Wrestlers Managed: Oneida Rhydderch

Debut: 2003

Debut Match: Ivor Rhydderch VS Rhodri Rhydderch. Double Count Out

Retired: N/A

Retirement Match: N/A

Wrestling Style: Grappler

Stables: The Rhydderch Clan (2003-)

Teams: No Team Names

Regular Moves: Rotating Punch To The Stomach, Backbreaker, Running Knee Lift, Belly To Belly Suplex, Diving Shoulder Block, Dropkick, Gorilla Press, Lariat, Scoop Powerslam, Spinning Spinebuster, Three Point Stance Tackle, Tiger Suplex

Finishers: Boston Crab, Senton, Sitout Gutwrench Powerbomb, High Angle Belly To Back Suplex

Refers To Fans As: The Fans, The Family

Extras

Backstory: Ivor Rhydderch of the C.R.C (Welsh Wrestling League / Cynghrair Reslo Cymru) owning Rhydderch Family. When Rhodri dies Ivor will have a 1/48th ownership of the promotion. Ivor is an 'Ogre Style' (Grappler) trainer. He's a quarter-Welsh and three quarters-Irish

Trivia: Nothing of Note

#D.U.D.E #original character #Rhydderch #C.R.C Wrestling Family #C.R.C Wrestling Promotion #C.R.C Wrestling School

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bigfan-fanfic · 5 years ago

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Making Bad Look Good Part 2

A second part! Featuring... Two-Face, Deathstroke, Deadshot, Harley Quinn, Poison Ivy, Mr. Freeze, Mad Hatter, Hush, Zsasz, Klarion the Witch Boy, and the Court of Owls!

I got a ton of requests for these, and you’ve all been so helpful! This one’s for you!

Making Bad Look Good part 2 - a.k.a. another 6 Degrees of Evil Bacon

Warning: Long post ahead.

Two-Face - Harvey Dent

You met Two-Face back when he was District Attorney for Gotham.

He was no “Ce-SEAL-Your-Fate” Horton from Central City, but he was doing a bang-up job putting criminals behind bars, cracking their insanity pleas.

So you went to meet him after a case where he got the Penguin sentenced to Blackgate instead of Arkham.

Sure, he’ll probably escape, but the precedent the case sets is important.

“Mr. Wayne! To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Just came to meet our amazing new D.A.”

You make small talk, until you decide to ask him to lunch to congratulate him on the case.

He grins. “Okay. But we’ll flip a coin for the check. Heads, you pay. Tails, my treat.”

You shrug.

He flips a strange coin that he tells you is his lucky charm.

It comes up heads, on the side that looks like it’s been corroded.

You smirk. “That’s a double-headed coin, isn’t it?”

He laughs. “Yup. Most people don’t get it so quick.”

He shakes your hand and offers to pay anyway since you were such a good sport.

After he becomes Two-Face, it’s this moment you choose to remember...

Deathstroke and Deadshot - Slade Wilson and Floyd Lawton

There have been quite a few times when you were targeted by an assassin or two.

But that particular time, you were the prize for a competition between them.

Slade and Lawton had been hired to take you out, but only the actual killer would get the other half of the payment.

So one day, Deadshot is setting up the hit, angling a crazy shot to hit you through the back of the skull and bamboozle all ballistics tests. You come into range, and he shoots -

-only to see you get shoved out of the way by the eyepatch-ed Slade Wilson.

Bruce wants to sequester you in the Batcave, but instead, you tell him to set up a meeting as Batman.

It’s fun to throw money at problems.

On a rooftop, the Bat behind you, you offer Slade and Lawton double the total for your contract to give you the name of their employer and void the hit.

It’s technically against whatever assassin code there is, but you know, money tends to grease the wheels of any machine.

Deadshot takes the money and tells you it was some crackpot billionaire trying to get at Bruce. He also chuckles and says that he’s available if you ever have more money to throw and a grudge for him to carry out.

Deathstroke also takes the money and nods at you before leaving.

And while Slade comes back to torment you and your sons time and again, Floyd is actually quite pleasant. You sometimes hire him when you need security, which he calls easy money, and from that point, your husband almost never encounters him on the job...

Harley Quinn - Dr. Harleen Frances Quinzel

“Paging Dr. Quinzel. Dr. Quinzel, to the front desk.”

You and some other Gotham big shots were invited to Arkham for a publicity tour. Reporters are there, too, including Clark, so you feel pretty safe.

A surprisingly young woman comes to play tour guide, her hair in slight pigtails.

“Hello, I’m Dr. Quinzel. Currently I’m junior psychologist here at Arkham Asylum.” She has a bit of a New York accent, though you can tell she’s worked hard to soften it.

One reporter asks just how “junior” she is, and she gives an indulgent chuckle. “Yes, I graduated med school early, so I’m a bit young for a specialized doctor. But I’m also one of the only medical professionals still willing to work at Arkham, so I think that’s what counts, right?”

The tour goes well enough, until you raise your hand. “You’re the psychologist in charge of the Joker, right?”

Dr. Quinzel smiles in a strange way. “Yes, that I am.”

You frown. “And do you think, as a junior psychologist, you’re adequately prepared for him?”

“I know that I am a medical professional, Mr. Wayne, and I am certainly qualified to examine my patients.”

But Dr. Quinzel, just for a moment, looks fractured, torn. Like there’s some sort of internal war raging in her soul. But it gets absorbed in her too-wide smile.

You put it down to nerves about meeting the press, and let it go.

You always wonder if there was something you could’ve done for the woman, prevented it from all going wrong, prevented her from becoming Harley Quinn...

Poison Ivy - Dr. Pamela Isley

Pamela was going to college at about the same time you were.

You weren’t friends, exactly, although you did both share a class in Professor Crane’s Intro Psych course (an elective for both of you).

There were a lot of rumors about her. You chose not to engage in the gossip, especially as it was a lot about her sleeping with her Biology professor for a better grade.

You had to do a project with her for your final grade, and she invited you to her apartment to work on it together.

It was full of plants. She mentions it before you have a chance to even think about bringing them up.

“They’re my babies.” she jokes. “So much easier to take care of than pets.”

You smile. “All the oxygen probably helps you work better, right?”

She nods. “Yeah. Yeah, it does.”

She talks about how she’s going to be a botanist when she graduates, and she’s going to work for the EPA. She’s very self-interested, but genuine, and you have fun while working on the project.

But only a few weeks after you turn in the project, she disappears. Rumors abound about how she ran off with the Bio professor. Some say they were having an affair. Others are kinder and say they’re on a botanical conservation mission in some swamp somewhere.

Either way, you never see Pamela again.

At least, until Poison Ivy shows up in town...

(Side note: Drew Barrymore as Poison Ivy? Thoughts?)

Mr. Freeze - Dr. Victor Fries

Fries shows up one day out of nowhere

Just shooting with that cold gun.

He attacks a gala event for the Wayne Foundation and holds it up for jewelry and the cash being raised for the underprivileged of Gotham..

You glare at him. “You know you’re just taking money right out of the pocket of needy kids, right?”

“It’s for a good cause.” He says darkly.

“And what cause would that be?”

He sneers at you. “Disease research, mainly.”

The phrase surprises you.

Later, Bruce is doing research at the Batcave. “He goes by Mr. Freeze. Born: Victor Fries. Wife Nora suffers from Stage Four of a rare pneumonia-like condition known as MacGregor Syndrome. He had her cryogenically frozen, and now it seems like he’s turned to crime to fund his research into a cure.”

You hesitate. “Well... is there something we can do to help him?”

“Help him? May I remind you that he held hundreds of people hostage?”

“Well...” you shrug. “I just figure that maybe he wouldn’t be so... crime-y if his wife was being taken care of. I don’t know what I’d do if I was so close to losing you.”

Bruce softens slightly. “Look, Freeze committed a crime - several crimes, and he has to go to jail. But if it makes you feel better, we can have Wayne Enterprise’s medical division look into studying her disease. Judging from what I see here, MacGregor Syndrome has similarities with many other diseases. It might be a key in finding lots more cures.”

You smile and hug him. “Lead with that. Tell Fries that we’re willing to do that.”

Of course, Fries’ future crimes are due to the cost of maintaining his portable cryogenic suit, but you hear a lot less about it than you expect, especially since Nora is being taken care of...

Mad Hatter - Jervis Tetch

You were meeting a couple of old school friends at a tea parlor one day. It’s nice to escape the stress of your life and reminisce.

Roland and Alicia are a cute couple, and they tell you they have a baby on the way.

But the day is marred by a strange incident in which a small man in a top hat and tails (tuxedo tails) comes up to your table and starts babbling at Alicia, calling her “Alice” and trying to touch her blond hair, despite her attempts to shove him away..

Roland gets angry and punches the man, but before he can go any further, you pull him back.

The strange man glances at you. “The Dormouse...” he mutters, and walks away.

“What a creep.” Alicia shudders.

You’ve already figured it out. The man is deluded, thinking he’s the Mad Hatter, and he seems to be trying to fit everything into his Wonderland-inspired delusions. You tell Bruce about this, and he immediately agrees that Alicia is in danger.

You go to their hotel room to see them, warn them, but Roland answers the door wearing a bowler hat and Alicia is nowhere to be found.

Roland attacks you, knocking you out and kidnapping you.

Thankfully Bruce has been watching as Batman and follows.

You wake up tied to a chair around a tea table. Alicia is tied to another chair in an Alice-in-Wonderland costume, looking terrified.

Jervis Tetch reveals himself and points out his minions, enslaved with his mind control headwear.

“Very spiffy, if I do say so myself.” you say cheerily. “Quite the milliner you are, my good sir.” (Alicia looks at you like you’re crazy)

Jervis loves the flattery, and it distracts him long enough for Batman to smash through the glass ceiling and knock the hat off his head, disabling the control.

Sure, no one was hurt much, but needless to say you would have to visit Alicia and Roland in the future instead of ever having them come to Gotham...

Hush - Dr. Tommy Elliot

“We’re having lunch with an old friend of mine.” Bruce announces.

You raise an eyebrow. “Wait a minute. Why don’t I know who this is? We have pretty much all the same old friends. I mean, we were together, like, all the time.”

“You remember Tommy, right?”

“Tommy? No, Tommy doesn’t ring a bell, hon.”

Bruce sighs, and you laugh. This is as animated as you’ve seen him in a while. “Come on, Tommy Elliot! Back when we were little! We used to play Robin Hood together in the park, and you two always fought over who got to be the Sheriff of Nottingham?”

“Yeah, nope. No memory of that.”

He sighs, but you go with him anyway. It hits you when you see the man at the restaurant. He was that kid! His parents were friends with Bruce’s parents. They had almost died in an accident when Bruce’s dad saved them.

He’d always try to play this strategy game thing with you and Bruce. It was only two players, and while he’d always beat Bruce (your husband wasn’t always the tactician he was now), he’d get really frustrated playing against you.

Tommy liked to try and get inside your head to beat you, figure out what you were going to do and then planning for it.

But you could tell what he was doing, and kept doing random moves you wouldn’t normally play, throwing him off and winning.

You didn’t like him much, and you kinda got the feeling he didn’t like Bruce that much either.

“Oh. That Tommy.”

Bruce looks at your worried face. “What’s wrong? If you really don’t want to, we can cancel.”

“Oh, hush. We’re already here. Least we can do is have a nice lunch...”

Zsasz - Victor Zsasz

It’s never a good sign when a payphone rings. So many bad reasons...

Not the least of which is that barely anyone even uses payphones anymore.

Let alone to call another payphone. I mean, how does that even work?

So it startles you when you’re walking Gotham (during the day, of course), and a payphone rings. No one else is around to answer it.

You start to walk away, and then the next payphone rings when you reach it.

The other guy near it jumps like fifty feet in the air, but then goes to answer it.

He looks scared. “It’s... it’s for you.”

You sigh and take the phone

“Ignoring my calls? Naughty...”

“Um... wrong number. This is a payphone, not, uh, whoever you were calling.”

“This isn’t Y/N Wayne?”

“Yeah, no, it isn’t. May I ask who’s calling, though?”

“I know it’s you, Y/N. You don’t know me. Yet.”

“Look, I know Halloween’s coming up, but I’m not in the mood for Scream right now, okay?”

“This isn’t a scary movie, it’s real. My name is Zsasz.”

“Z- zsa... okay, how is that spelled?”

“Z. S. A. S. Z.”

“Oh, that’s beautiful. If you don’t mind me asking, is that Polish?”

“...What?”

“Sorry, I have to run, but it was nice talking to you!”

You run home and immediately tell Bruce you talked to Zsasz. Luckily you were running a trace with your phone - a little extra Tim developed for you. Within the hour, Batman has Zsasz in custody, saving the poor people he had kidnapped to add to his tally...

Klarion the Witch Boy

“Oh, hello! Who are you, little guy?”

The orange tabby glares at you with utter hate. It flicks its tail, but surprisingly, comes closer and curls around your legs.

It allows you to pick it up, and it purrs.

“Teekl! My word!” a boy comes running up to you, wearing a tailored suit and a newsboy cap.

The boy snatches the tabby from you and pets it, despite how it looks like it wants to go back to you. “What were you doing with Teekl?”

“That’s its name? He’s a cute little guy. Uh, he just wandered in front of me and basically asked me to pet him.”

The boy glares at the cat. “You TALKED to him?”

The cat looks at him and rolls its eyes.

“Um, who are you, kid?”

He looks at you incredulously. “Seriously, mortal? You haven’t heard of me? I am Klarion! Klarion the Witch Boy! And this is my familiar, Teekl.”

You nod seriously. “Good for you, kid.”

He seems about to throw a tantrum, so you wave and leave the boy dumbfounded...

The Court of Owls

“Beware the Court of Owls, that watches all the time,

Ruling Gotham from a shadowed perch, behind granite and lime.

They watch you at your hearth, they watch you in your bed,

Speak not a whispered word of them

Or they’ll send the Talon for your head...”

“That’s a stupid poem. It doesn’t even keep time.”

“It’s free verse.”

“Yeah, free ‘cause no one would pay for it.”

You and Bruce were only kids when you heard the old rhyme. Bruce was trying to scare you as a Halloween season joke, but it wasn’t working.

“Come on, Y/N! At least pretend to play along!”

Thomas Wayne enters the living room, and pretends to scold Bruce. “Now, Bruce, be hospitable to your guest. What’s the argument about?”

You smirk. “Bruce says that there’s a Court of Owls who eat limes and put talons on people’s heads.”

Thomas hunches down, making a spooky face. “Well, Y/N, it’s an old Gotham story. It’s a very bad thing that Bruce told you. You’ll have to be very careful now.”

He looks dead serious, and now you’re scared. “Really? What should I do, Mr. Wayne?”

He puts a hand on your shoulder. “You’ll have to be a very good kid all your life, Y/N. Never go out after dark without your parents’ permission. Don’t ever cheat on a test. Don’t lie. And if you ever see someone in an Owl mask, look the other way and forget you saw it.”

He grins, dropping the facade. “I’m sorry, Y/N, I just couldn’t help it. Hope I didn’t scare you too badly.”

Being a stubborn child, you insist he didn’t. After all, you’re old enough not to be scared by that stuff anymore.

But on the way home, after your parents pick you up, you notice something.

A tall figure in an alley, wearing a stylized white Owl mask.

You quickly look away, trying to put it out of your head, mumbling the rhyme to yourself.

“Beware the Court of Owls...”

You forget about this until far later in life, after you, as Y/N Wayne, have become an enemy of the dreaded Court...

#batdad reader #male reader #batman x male reader #batman headcanons #dc headcanons #headcanon

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caffeineivore · 5 years ago

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Commission #5

For @lyrhiamoon, who prompted fluffy Christmastime Minako/Kunzite with bonus Artemis. A Hallmark Movie-esque meet-cute, if you will :P

Only Nicholas Abington-Bryce, the aging, irrascible founder of the Bryce Real Estate empire, would have the chutzpah to demand a house call from his lawyer a mere two days before Christmas. And indeed, even soulless lawyers have their limits. Kyle Grayson, however, never put much stock in the holiday, and though his idea of a good time undoubtedly entailed something other than making yet more painstaking and arbitrary adjustments to an already-elaborate will, that it was half-past three in the afternoon of the twenty-third of December did not faze him in the least. Kyle had been the old man’s lawyer for the last year and a half, and he did not expect anything more or less than to deal with a little hand-and-foot waiting. And when one had no family or close friends with whom to celebrate Christmas, that particular calendar day was much like any of the other 364 out of the year.

Of course, he did not particularly care to make the drive all the way to the palatial Abington-Bryce mansion all the way upstate. The old man had done his business in the city back in the day, but had retired to live out his golden years in a picturesque resort town mostly known for its ski slopes in the winter and its hiking trails in the summer. He still made the hour and a half journey into the city to meet with his board once a week, or perhaps to put Kyle through the paces if he felt like it, but on the phone call, he’d explained abruptly that he’d given his chauffeur the week off for the holiday. It had certainly not occurred to the old man to do such an outlandish thing as to drive himself into the city, and had Kyle suggested such a thing, it’s entirely possible that Nicholas Abington-Bryce would have reached through the phone and choked him to death for the impudence. And so it is that at the hour of four o’clock, Kyle pulls into the merging traffic bringing drivers away from the lights and liveliness of the big city and onto the expressway heading north.

The snow begins to fall in fat, feathery flakes about halfway through his commute, but Kyle grits his teeth and soldiers on. He had just gotten the pre-winter oil change and routine checkup on his car, and it boasted freshly rotated tires and brand new windshield wipers and a full tank of gas. The roads get increasingly slick the further he gets away from the city, but that is only to be expected. By the time he reaches the winding mountain roads which lead into the little podunk town in BFE, lane markings are all but obscured, and he has dropped his speed down to thirty miles per hour, then twenty-five as the winds howled and raged outside. The GPS had given him an estimated time of arrival of half-past five, but it is a good forty-five minutes past that when he finally pulls into the long, winding drive of the Abington-Bryce mansion.

The house is picturesque enough-- all red brick and slate-gray shutters and white columns adorning its front facade. A generous expanse of lawn is covered with the rapidly-falling snow, and white Christmas lights glow against the fringe of glittery icicles along the eaves and windows. The porch is flanked by neatly trimmed privet hedges and the main door is hung with a forest green wreath of pine boughs and holly. Stamping through snow that is almost certainly melting into and ruining his shoes, Kyle hunches his shoulders against the biting wind and rings the doorbell.

He would have been surprised if the cantankerous old man himself have answered the door, sure, because Nicholas Abington-Bryce definitely strikes him as the sort who likely spent his evenings in state seated in an easy-chair with a snifter of brandy and a cigar and a newspaper. A housekeeper would be more in-character, or perhaps a butler. Quiet, inobtrusive, judgmental, clad in neat black clothing. What he had not expected, though, was for the door to be pulled open by someone with a fountain of golden hair and a fuzzy sweater in a shade of candy-apple red, but before his mind could register much more than ‘young woman, blonde, very hot’, a white fluffy blur shoots straight at his legs.

“Artemis, NO!” Very Hot Blonde has a voice like silver bells, and it’s not at all effective in scolding what looks and feels like a very determined cat climbing its way up Kyle’s right leg, claws painfully searching for traction on the fabric and digging into his skin. Indeed, the cat ignores the woman and likely would have made his way all the way up to Kyle’s hip had she not huffed out a breath, stooped down and bodily yanked the beastie off. That doesn’t end well-- the move puts her face-level with his crotch, but before he could even stammer out something in mortification-- the cat yowls and digs in, and the sound of ripping fabric immediately follows. His pants, in very short order, look like something which would be found in some hipster designer bin. Very Hot Blonde, now holding onto the cat in a death-grip like a mother with a squirmy, hyperactive toddler, takes a step back, and looks up into his face, baby blue eyes wide and contrite.

“Oh, hi. I’m sorry, please come on in. I’m Mina, and this VERY BAD CAT WHO WILL GET NO TREATS is Artemis. I’d offer to shake hands, but I don’t want to let him go for an instant or he’ll jump on you again. He’s just being friendly, I promise!”

“... Am I at the right place?” Kyle asks belatedly, stepping into the foyer area. Overhead, a big, glittery crystal chandelier glints off the gold of her hair. “Is this the residence of Mr. Nicholas Abington-Bryce?” Certainly nothing in the old man’s demeanour or lifestyle suggested that he would feature unknown beautiful women and mischievous cats as a part of his household. “I’m Kyle Grayson, from Grayson and Burnett in New York City. I’m his lawyer.”

“Oh! Yes, he did call you to come today, didn’t he? I forgot, because it’s Christmas soon, and I’ve been getting ready since I’ve arrived two days ago. I’m Mina. But I said that already, didn’t I?” A pretty blush touches those flawless cheekbones, and Kyle has never before found himself charmed when faced with a flustered female. “That is to say, I’m Mina Abington, here to visit Grandpa Nicky from out of town. Do come in out of the cold so we can get you some hot cocoa and cookies. Do you like gingerbread?”

Kyle did not consider himself a hot cocoa and gingerbread type of guy, but surely the alternative was worse-- saying no to those big blue eyes, which happened to belong to the very-off-limits granddaughter of a client. Cautiously, he follows her in.

“We’ve just had dinner, Grandpa Nicky and I, but if you’d like a plate, I’ll be happy to get you one. We had broccoli-stuffed chicken breast and wild rice. You must be starving after that drive.”

“Doesn’t your grandfather want to see me? I am quite late, unfortunately. But the roads are getting pretty bad out there, and it couldn’t be helped.”

“I’m sure he will, but he’s taking a nap. He takes a nap after dinner every day, for about an hour. He’ll be up again in time to watch the seven o’clock news.” The fetching-- and since when did he use such plebeian terms as ‘fetching’-- Miss Mina Abington leads him into the kitchen with her cat still clutched in her arms, and beams a megawatt smile at the stout, apron-clad woman standing by the stove.

“Mrs. MacGregor, could I maybe please get you to put together a plate of dinner? For our guest? He’s come a long way and it’s so cold outside.”

Even as Kyle raises an eyebrow at the positively Dickensian descriptor for himself, Mrs. MacGregor harrumphs. “Are ye goin’ to take that bloody wee beastie out of me kitchen first?”

“I will do that in just a moment. He can keep Grandpa company, don’t you think?”

“I dinna care so long as he doesna get his wee paws into the fish again. Or the chicken. Or the ham. Or, indeed, the tatties, which he has no earthly use for, now does he?” Mrs. MacGregor waits until both girl and cat are out of the room, then turns a beady eye on Kyle. “Ye must be the lad from the law office in the city.”

Kyle cannot recall, at any point in his thirty-two years, ever being called a ‘lad’, but he nods in an awkward way. “Yes, my name is Kyle Grayson. I’m Mr. Abington-Bryce’s lawyer.”

“And have you been working for him for long?”

“For almost two years now. He’s always done business with our firm, but I took him on after I made partner. My predecessor was good golf buddies with Mr. Abington-Bryce before they’d both retired, as I understand it.”

In short order, Kyle finds himself more or less telling the grumpy Scotswoman his whole life story-- growing up in Connecticut, attending college and law school at Yale, moving to New York City after receiving his Juris Doctor and getting a job offer at the firm. She harrumphs again at random moments, but places a steaming cup of coffee and fragrant plate of food in front of him, and he’s hungrier than he thought, because by the time Mina walks in again, this time sans cat, he’s almost halfway through the plate. She beams at him in a way that makes him feel embarrassed for no good reason, then moves onto cajole Mrs. MacGregor for hot cocoa and gingerbread cookies.

It’s almost insidiously nice, and a distant clock strikes seven as he starts in on the cocoa and gingerbread, and that brings him back to reality with a jerk. “Look, Miss Abington, I’m not here to socialize. I’m here on behalf of your grandfather, my client, who is undoubtedly wondering where I am. I appreciate the hospitality, but I should definitely get to work before it gets even later. I still have a long drive back to the city.”

“Oh, do call me Mina, won’t you? I had a teacher in high school call me Miss Abington in a really snide way whenever I dozed off in her class, and considering it was Geometry, who could blame me, right? And certainly you must see to Grandpa’s business with you, but you’re not thinking of driving back in the blizzard, are you? The forecast says we’re supposed to get a foot of snow. Oh… you must have some plans for Christmas. Of course. It’s supposed to stop snowing by tomorrow morning, and hopefully by tomorrow afternoon we’ll be plowed out.”

“I don’t have plans for Christmas, but I can’t really just impose on you guys, either.” Kyle finds himself inordinately fascinated by the rapidly changing expressions on her face, and at this latest statement, she looked as though someone had kicked her troublemaker cat across the icy street straight into a snowdrift.

“No plans for Christmas? But… but…how?!”

Kyle shrugs, a bit disturbed that it seems to matter so much to her. “I just don’t. Anyway, I should get to work. Where is your grandfather, Miss… Mina?”

“In the den. Here, follow me.” Still looking very sad and lost, she leads the way, and Kyle gets an impression of a cavernous, well-kept home all buffed hardwood floors and antique furniture polished to a gleam. The den features a roaring fireplace complete with boughs of holly festooning the mantel and a towering Christmas tree glittering with ornaments and ribbons and lights, festively topped with an angel with golden hair not unlike Mina’s. Nicholas Abington-Bryce is seated in an easy chair, looking not unlike a Bond villain or a Mafia boss in his Italian suit, the fluffy white monster of a cat quite docilely perched on his lap and purring loudly. The cat, Kyle notices with not a little bit of resentment, seems to have no inclination of sharpening its claws on his pant legs.

“Ah, Mr. Grayson. You have arrived.” The old man stands, dislodging the cat on his lap. It zeroes in on Kyle once again, but seems a bit friendlier this time, choosing instead to wind circles around his ankles. Or perhaps attempting to trip him. Either way, between the rips and the cat hairs, his trousers are destined for the trash heap. Kyle manfully attempts to move his way across the room without tripping over the animal, and shakes the old man’s hand.

“Yes, I’m here, as you requested. When did you want to get started on the work?”

“After we finish watching the news, of course.” Nicholas, now that the formalities have been observed, plunks right back down in his chair, gestures Kyle towards the plush white loveseat where Mina is already sitting with a peremptory hand. “One must keep abreast of what’s going on in the world, you know? The work will wait until we’re done here. At my age, young man, there’s nothing left but time. Now hush.”

A glance at the screen of the gigantic wall-mounted television screen shows an accounting of what looks to be the latest Kardashian-Jenner escapade. Kyle seats himself gingerly next to the girl, and as the cat now makes himself quite at home by crawling its way back up into his lap, he resigns himself to a long night ahead. At this proximity, Mina’s thigh brushes against his, and he can smell the scent of her hair-- something sweet and warm, like wild honeysuckle and vanilla. She laughs at the Kardashian antics on the screen, and the thought occurs to him that her voice is far more suited for laughter than for scolding or recriminations. And he absolutely doesn’t know her at all, nor has any business thinking or noticing anything about her voice, or the scent of her hair. In his lap, the cat fixes piercing blue eyes upon his face, as though suspiciously trying to ascertain his intentions towards its mistress.

Kyle sighs. A very, very long night ahead. And if the weather report, as being delivered by an unnaturally chipper redhead in a skirt suit on the screen, is accurate to any degree, he’s very well and truly stuck. There’d be no navigating his sleek but seldom-used Lexus through the snowdrifts if he left now, and they’d probably find his dead body after the spring thaw. He’d have to spend at least one night under the same roof as his most demanding client and quite possibly the prettiest girl he had ever seen, and he didn’t even have a toothbrush or a change of clothes.

Bah freaking Humbug indeed.

#m/k #senshi/shitennou #sailor moon #fanfiction #fanfic #commission #lyrhiamoon

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tysonrunningfox · 6 years ago

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21 snotstrid please uwu

I don’t know what this is but it was fun

Halloween Prompts

Snotlout isn’t scared.

Mostly, he’s not scared because there’s no way there’s a ghost in the old MacGregor mansion, Hiccup is a liar just looking for attention. He knows that just as certainly as he knows that the glass ball Astrid is carrying is just a giant marble, and that lady with all the scarves swindled them out of thirty bucks, but since Hiccup doesn’t trust rational people to not see his stupid ghost, they had to carry a stupid giant marble in here to get him to shut up.

“Upstairs?” Astrid asks, flinching when he accidentally aims the flashlight right into her eyes. "Be careful with that thing.“

"Maybe I should go first,” he shoulders past her, pausing at the bottom of the stairs and taking in the uneven, creaky boards. A shadow skitters across the third and he jumps, fumbling the flashlight and ducking halfway behind Astrid, free hand on her arm.

“Seriously? It was a spider.” She shrugs his hand off, “I thought you weren’t scared.”

“I’m not,” he prods the first stair with a careful toe. It creaks and another spider appears from a crack in the wood. Snotlout shivers, crossing his arms and rubbing at the goosebumps. "The stairs just look super old and maybe you should go first because you’re lighter. In case they break.“

"And they say chivalry isn’t dead.” She shakes her head at him, disgusted, and tucks the stupid big marble under her arm to grip the dusty banister. She does test the first stair though, bouncing on the ball of her foot before climbing to the second. "Can I get some light?“ She gestures at the stairs ahead of her and when he re-aims the flashlight, something bigger than a spider flits across the hallway at the top of them. It’s Astrid’s turn to jump and she glares over her shoulder at him before he can say anything. "Don’t say anything, it was a mouse.”

“I wasn’t going to,” he shrugs, following her cautiously onto the first stair. Usually, this would be a good opportunity to stare at her ass, but as much as he tries to focus, shadows moving too quick to be moonlight keep grabbing his attention.

The second to last stair cracks and splinters when Astrid puts her weight on it and her foot falls through. She fumbles for the glass ball and Snotlout catches her shoulder reflexively before she can fall back.

“Thanks,” she mumbles, shrugging his hand off and handing the glass ball back to him.

“I tried warning you that the stairs might crack–”

“Can I have the flashlight so I can get my foot unstuck?” She’s impatient, yanking her foot upwards with no luck.

“Scared the ghost is going to get it?”

“No, but I don’t want tetanus from a rusty nail,” a tinge of almost panic leaks into her voice as she tugs behind her knee with her hand. Her sneaker crunches through and she almost falls back again, but Snotlout catches her with the glass ball against the small of her back. "Come on,“ she jumps over the dark hole her foot left and waits on the landing, shining the flashlight in either direction and leaving Snotlout in the dark.

"Hey!”

“Are you coming?” She shines the light right in his face, “you should probably jump the last step.”

“No shit,” he tucks the ball under his arm to do so, grip tight on the top of the banister, half expecting the whole floor to fall out from underneath him when he lands.

“I said jump, not shake the whole house by landing as hard as you can,” Astrid gripes, flashing the flashlight both directions, “left or right.”

“Should I ask the marble?” He holds it up and she rolls her eyes, her scoff making the motion recognizable in the dark.

“I swear, if you believe in ghosts and crystal balls and I don’t know what else and you just said you didn’t to hit on me all night–”

“As much as I’m looking forward to you getting scared later and needing my manly protection,” he flexes an arm and Astrid’s jaw twitches, “I’m here to prove Hiccup wrong.”

“That’s not the same as not believing in ghosts,” she takes the big dumb marble back and forces the flashlight into his hand before choosing left and walking into the first room. It’s a definitionally creepy sitting room with a big old grandfather clock and two moth eaten chairs across from a dusty wooden bench. The portrait on the wall is of an old man in a suit with a pretty fantastic moustache and Astrid stares at it for a second before sitting on the bench, marble in her lap. "So, do you? Believe in ghosts, I mean.“ It’s a real question, whispered and judgmental and Snotlout scoffs, sitting next to her and slouching down, shrugging his hoodie around cold ears. The beam of light from his flashlight cuts through the dusty air to illuminate the portrait. "You seemed pretty scared downstairs–”

“Because that spider was the size of a mouse, Astrid, I believe in spiders and I believe in them wanting to bite me.”

“Spiders are harmless,” she tucks one foot underneath her, spinning the glass ball in her lap. It catches moonlight streaming in through moth-eaten curtains and she looks at the flashlight. "You can turn that off, probably, we might need the battery later.“

"And sit in the dark?”

“It’s not that dark, the full moon is right outside.” She gestures at the window, “are you scared?”

“No,” he clicks off the flashlight and it makes the crickets outside instantly louder. He imagines he can ear spider feet dragging across the dusty floor. There’s an unopened closed behind the chair across from them, next to the big creepy clock and it’s hard not to imagine it opening. Even if there’s nothing inside it but spiders, the door is setting him on edge. Maybe it’s full of spiders, or something else. Maybe some drifter heard about their plan to prove Hiccup wrong by spending a night here and broke in to wait for them to steal their stuff and blame it on ghosts. Of course, that would only work if they don’t leave any witnesses.

The clock chimes.

“Get off of me!” Astrid shoves him away as he grabs her arm, tugging her half into his lap like a shield. The glass ball bounces on the dusty rug, rolling slowly to knock against the closed closet door.

“The clock just went off for no reason–”

“It’s midnight,” she shows him her digital watch, elbowing him in the ribs to climb off of him before brushing drifts of dust off of her legs. "Clocks sometimes make sounds at midnight and other relevant hours.“

"But it’s not ticking,” he points at the clock’s pendulum, still and dusty in its cobwebbed chamber.

“I don’t know, maybe it has enough of a charge to chime but not enough to tick.”

“Don’t you have to wind old clocks? That means someone has wound it recently–”

“Or it’s just a weird, broken old clock.” She picks up the glass ball and checks it over. "And be careful with this, the last thing I want is Ruffnut deciding a ghost got to it when we bring it out of here chipped.“

"Ok, but hear me out, what if it’s not a ghost, what if a serial killer broke in here before us because they heard we were coming and they want to get their murder rocks off and blame it on some dumb ghost.” He points at the closet as she sits back down next to him.

“Yeah, I’m sure they heard from their werewolf buddy before the full moon forced them to embrace the beast within.”

“Are you sure it’s a full moon, not just an almost full moon?” He hugs himself.

“Wait.” She shushes him, one hand on the ball on her lap. "Do you hear that?“

"Hear what?”

“Oh my god, I think the crystal ball is working.” Her eyes widen and Snotlout shakes his head.

“No, it’s not. That’s impossible, you said there was no such thing as ghosts and I believed you, Astrid–”

“The spirits…” she closes her eyes and tilts her head back for a second, “they’re telling me…that you’re a dumbass.” She turns to look at him levelly, unimpressed and maybe a little amused.

“Very funny.”

“Thanks, I thought so,” she sighs, “sorry, it was also kind of mean.”

“Since when have you apologized for being mean to me?” He snorts, still keeping an eye on that closet even as he forces himself to relax, rolling tense shoulders and focusing on crickets.

“Since I realized I don’t want to spend the next six hours with you freaking out.” She looks around the room and nods, “just a creepy old house full of creepy old things.”

“You can say that again,” he nods at the portrait on the wall, “who do you think Mr. Moustache is?”

“I think that’s Mr. MacGregor,” she answers with certainty she doesn’t quite play off as casual. "He inherited the house back at the turn of the century. Apparently he was trying to sell it when his son died and he kind of became a hermit here.“

"Creepy,” Snotlout shoves his hands in his pockets. Astrid sets the glass ball between them and hugs her knees to her chest, hands pulled back inside her sleeves. "You know, if your'e cold, you could come over here.“

"Right, so you can use me as a human shield between you and the scary closet again?” She shakes her head, “I’m good, thanks.”

“For the record, I was thinking there was a serial killer in the closet, not a ghost.”

“Was that before or after you thought werewolves were real?” She raises an eyebrow and deliberates for a second before picking up the glass ball again and switching places with it, her shoulder almost touching his. "I’m just getting away from the window, there’s a draft.“

"Sure, babe.”

She elbows him, “I thought you said you weren’t going to hit on me.”

“I said I didn’t lie about not believing in ghosts to hit on you. How hot you look in the creepy moonlight is just a bonus.”

“You know, a serial killer isn’t the only person who could blame a murder on ghosts.” She glares at him but doesn’t move, staring at the grandfather clock that’s looking less creepy and more boring the longer that they sit here.

Snotlout isn’t sure when he falls asleep. He knows it’s after one, because he waits to see if the clock chimes again and points out when it doesn’t. He definitely doesn’t mean to fall asleep, it’s like he blinks and suddenly the sun is assaulting his eyelids while a pointy elbow digs into his thigh and a firm weight lifts from his shoulder. It’s Astrid, groggy eyed and still half leaning on him, hair messed up from where her head found his shoulder.

“Shit, we fell asleep,” she looks around, “but we made it through, so I guess we won the bet.”

Snotlout looks down at his lap and frowns. There’s a quilt over them, moth-eaten and dusty but warm, and he’s warm enough underneath it that it must have been there for a while.

“Where’d you get the blanket?”

“Huh?” Astrid freezes, looking down at her own lap, “I didn’t get it, I figured you must have, like cuddling a sleeping person isn’t a creepy move,” she shoves at his shoulder and he holds his hands up in mock surrender.

“Right, like you weren’t the one practically on top of me with your heavy bowling ball head–”

The closet door creaks open and they both snap to look at it. It’s empty except for some ancient clothes and rusty pipes running along the back wall. Clothes and pipes and a crystal ball that rolls slowly across the room to rest against Astrid’s feet.

“It’s an ancient house,” she jumps up, shoving the blanket to the ground and picking up the ball, holding it gingerly between her fingers. "The floor isn’t level.“

"And you were clearly making a move on me with the blanket,” he follows close behind as she practically runs to the staircase, checking over her shoulder every few feet.

“Was not.”

“I don’t see what else happened.” He steps carefully over the stair her foot put a hole in last night, “did the ghost cover us up and put the crystal ball in the closet so that it could open all ominously in the morning?”

“Right, a ghost disproved all modern science and common sense to be your wingman,” she opens the front door and steps out into the sun, tossing the crystal ball back at him as soon as they’re outside. It’s warm, too warm and too uniform to have come from Astrid’s grip on it, and he almost drops it.

“Not even Hiccup would believe that.”

“Ok, so we just don’t tell him.” She shrugs, “we won the bet, we didn’t see anything weird.” When he doesn’t answer right away she blushes, glancing back at the house and crossing her arms. "Got it?“

The door they just came through slams shut behind them, a gust of unusually cold air following them off of the porch as they both run the last couple of steps. Snotlout nods.

"Yup, boring house, we saw nothing, we definitely don’t need to go back in there.”

“It’s just the wind,” she snaps, scowling as she stalks back towards the street. Snotlout doesn’t believe that for a second, but he sticks close anyway, because she’s determined enough that the ghost just might buy into it.

#snotstrid #modern au #halloween prompts #this is a good way to switch gears methinks

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a-h-arts · 7 years ago

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Leisurely Cruise through History of Mankind This is an excellent read. As usual, BBC does not disappoint. The book is compiled from transcripts of a 100-episode series on BBC Radio. One hundred objects are thoughtfully picked from exhibits at the British Museum to chronicle the history of mankind, from its earliest beginnings up to the 21st century. The 100 chapters are short, but solid, each corresponding to an episode on radio. The book is great for leisurely, but very informative reading. A definite advantage that the book has over the radio episodes is that it shows each of the 100 objects in full colour. Go to Amazon

Clear Some Space In Your Mind I believe I learned more per page reading this book than any I've ever read. A tour through all of history using objects collected (stolen?) by the British Museum, this book is a bravura execution of material culture and archaeological studies. In fact, I used several entries with my Advanced Placement Literature class in order to expose them to effective and interesting "close reading." MacGregor does with objects what literary critics do with a passage of poetry: he describes the object (lovely pictures ARE included), he gives a fascinating context of the period in which this object was used, and finally, provides an analysis of what the object "says" about the people, nation, and region that used or owned it. I find this method of historical explication incredibly engaging. Rather than begin with abstract concepts like democracy, Federalism, or ethnic cleansing, MacGregor begins with the concrete--a vase, a coin, a flower pot-- and says here's what this culture produced, here's what that says about them. This also dovetails nicely with what I teach in class regarding advertising; that we can come to understand the ideals of a nation by studying its advertisements. Interestingly, the objects MacGregor chooses also function as "advertisements" for their respective milieus. A testament to how well this book is written and constructed is that I read it incredibly quickly. Before I knew it, I was on object 56 at the 300 something page mark and I had no mental fatigue. The fact that the book is organized in 100 3 to 4 pages "chapters" helps a lot because I found myself reading a few objects here and there whenever I had some spare time. I recommend this book highly to anyone who has even a fleeting interest in archaeology or cultural materialism; your efforts, and the rather hefty price of the book will be worth it. Go to Amazon

Mandatory reading for all and all ages Extraordinary. Everything: the format, the language, above all the content matter spanning all cultures, never boring, ever illuminating the immense shadows of ignorance around those glimpses of our own story that school managed to slip through, but never really taught. I know the author could not possibly fit in the whole British museum, but I miss one more single item I try and never fail to go and see again every time in London: the "Karissima Lepidina" message on wood tablet that from the marginal outpost in Vindolanda speaks of family life and value through about 18 centuries with an immediacy... that requires no mediation, almost no translation: women were writing, cursive handwriting was telling, postage was functional, time was set apart to keep in touch, leisure trips were planned... I would really like everybody to learn from the mastery of Neil Macgregor the details. May the next edition will be of 101 objects. Go to Amazon

are absolutely brilliant. Mr Each of these BBC broadcasts, here in printed form, are absolutely brilliant. Mr. MacGregor has a rigorous and poetic grasp of these various and symbolic representations of the past. I have had the privilege of visiting the British Museum at least 8 times during my lifetime. I plan to visit it again, like a small child, and seek out the brilliant treasures Mr. MacGregor describes. Go to Amazon

A Treasure. Well organized. The history behind each of these beautiful objects is so well presented. The high quality photos help make this book a treasure. Also, at the museum, only a subset of these objects is displayed at any time. To see them all, one would have to make many trips to London. If planing to visit the British Museum, knowing something about this collection of pieces beforehand, makes the adventure even more enjoyable. Go to Amazon

Both pleasurable and didactic When I began this formidably lengthy book I thought I would cherry pick among the 100 objects, choosing the ones that seemed interesting and skipping over others. In the event, I found it difficult to skip over anything, for each chapter seemed to contain new and absorbing information. I thus wound up reading about virtually every one of the 100 items pictured. Go to Amazon

Man the Artist I don't think this replaces the pod cast series, but is a great addition. I would love to have had the series be visual, not just audio clips, and this book gives more images that help understand the objects. While there are quotes from the audios in the book, it is not just a transcript, but has new information that adds to the experience. I think it will stand alone as well, but it's hard for me to tell because I have listened to (some of) the podcasts. Go to Amazon

Poor shipping The book lives up to it's good reviews Informative, not overwhelming Great book Fascinating and worthwhile A winner Five Stars Five Stars Helps me Five Stars

#Historical #art #book

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geekade · 8 years ago

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Welcome to the F.C.U. (The Fargo Cinematic Universe)

In 1996, Joel & Ethan Coen created what many feel is their masterwork film, the murder mystery, crime drama, sociological regional study we lovingly know as Fargo. Near the end of the film, the only remaining living suspect, Gaear Grimsrud, is found stuffing the foot of his former partner in crime into a wood chipper near a cabin on a pristine frozen lake in the dead of winter. When the true hero of the film, pregnant law enforcement officer Marge Gunderson, stumbles across the crime scene, she shoots the eerily vacant-eyed psychopath in the leg as he tries to escape across the lake. As she transports him back across that frozen white tundra, she tries to make sense of the inconceivable tragedy which has unfolded.

“So, that was Mrs. Lundegaard on the floor in there,” says Gunderson. “And I guess that was your accomplice in the wood chipper. And those three people in Brainerd. And for what? For a little bit of money? There's more to life than a little money, you know. Don'tcha know that? And here ya are, and it's a beautiful day. Well. I just don't understand it.”

It was an amazingly well-crafted moment and perfectly captured our feeling of revulsion and bewilderment. Why would anyone commit those horrific acts on another human being? What could happen in anyone’s life that would allow him or her to think that this was any way to behave? Fargo would go on to win two Academy Awards – one for Frances McDormand for Best Actress and one for the Coen brothers for Best Screenplay.

I’ll be the first to admit that when FX announced it was doing a television version of Fargo, I was very skeptical. I mean, how could FX top the movie? Without the Coen brothers?

Well, the third season of showrunner-extraordinaire Noah Hawley’s expansion of that world is now underway on the FX network. What began as a sparse, tightly written 98 minute film has now spawned two (going on three) seasons of gripping crime drama with a healthy dose of absurdist humor and a sprinkle of supernatural goings-on. So what’s the secret? How was Hawley and his team of writers able to so brilliantly capture the magic? Not since M*A*S*H has there been such a critically renowned film that’s been turned into an unforgettable television program.

So here, then, are the ingredients for what I think you need to create what I think is the most imaginative program on television.

Strong female lead characters

It is a tired old trope, but with very few exceptions, crime dramas generally tend to have far more testosterone. Fargo, I can happily report, is the exception to the rule. Following in the film’s footsteps, the lead female characters are strong-willed, capable women who can take care of themselves, thank you very much. Molly Solverson (played by Allison Tolman) in season one and Carrie Coon’s character Gloria Burgle in season three are both dedicated, heroic police officers who innately can sense when something is amiss. And Cristin Miliotti’s portrayal of Molly Solverson’s cancer inflicted mother Betsy in the time jump in season two is a testament to her acting ability and the level of writing on the show.

Even better, the women on the other side of the law are all well-drawn, motivated characters. Jean Smart’s portrayal of the Gerhardt family matriarch was Emmy-worthy in season 2, as was Kirsten Dunst’s performance as hairdresser turned criminal Peggy Blumquist. And my favorite femme fatale so far is season three’s stupendously-named Nikki Swango, wonderfully played by Mary Elizabeth Winstead. Every time Nikki Swango is on screen you can almost hear Joan Jett’s “Bad Reputation” playing in your mind. You know she’s in charge, and her manipulation of Ray Stussy so far has been wondrous to behold. The women in Fargo are every bit as heroic, villainous, dedicated and savage as the men, if not more so.

Quirky Secondary Characters

Maybe it’s the accents. Maybe it’s the names. Whatever it is, the secondary characters in Fargo are so cleverly created. Every character has a significant purpose in the plot and every character seems to have personality quirks which draw us in. Bokeem Woodbine’s Mike Milligan, the philosophizing hit man. Brad Garrett’s Joe Bulo, an almost bureaucratic mob boss. Nick Offerman’s hilarious portrayal of Karl Weathers, an alcoholic libertarian lawyer. Ted Danson’s gentle Sheriff Hank Larsson who is trying to create a new language to foster greater understanding between people. And my favorite, the always reliable Oliver Platt and his portrayal of supermarket king Stavros Milos, whose discovery of a certain briefcase full of cash on a lone, desolate highway connects the television Fargo with the movie.

Star Power

The ever expanding list of top flight actors who appear in Fargo is truly mindboggling. The shorter shooting seasons which have now become the norm in television dramas has allowed an influx of a-team talent to lend the very capable writers a never ending parade of remarkable performances. When your program can list the names above as well as Billy Bob Thornton, Bob Odenkirk, Keith Carradine, Keegan-Michael Key, Jordan Peele, Stephen Root, Adam Goldberg, Patrick Wilson, Jesse Plemons, Adam Arkin and David Thewlis, you’re doing something right.

Family Rivalries

Each season seems to focus, at least partially, on a rivalry between family members. Whether it’s desperate bad guy wannabe Lester Nygaard (played by Martin Freeman ditching his British accent) sneaking out of the hospital in the middle of the night to plant evidence to frame his brother Chazz for murder, or the season long war between the crime family Gerhardt brothers in season two, Fargo excels at capturing the out and out animosity that can (and frequently does) exist between siblings. Season three’s stunt casting of Ewan MacGregor playing both Ray and Emmit Stussy, brothers in conflict over a rare stamp and a decrepit Corvette Stingray, continues the almost biblical family battles we have seen to date.

Unfathomable Pinhead-ery and the Inevitability of Fate

When Nikki describes the official cause of death of drug addict Maurice LeFay, a parolee who was crushed by a two-hundred pound air conditioner pushed out of a window by Swango and her lover Ray Stussy after accidentally killing the wrong victim at the wrong address, as “unfathomable pinhead-ery,” you know you’ve struck gold. Many of the plot complications on Fargo are not the result of a master criminal carrying out a complicated, Ocean’s Eleven-type scheme. Inevitably, the crimes committed in Fargo are of the purely accidental variety and are the worst possible idea anyone could ever have in their short, strange lives. The ideas never work, but the randomness of the crimes lead to a far greater ripple effect of violence and bloodshed. Those ripples always begin as diminutive pebbles thrown into the frozen waters in this series. But those ripples always grow exponentially into destructive waves.

The fact that we know almost certainly that certain characters will meet their end is something we always see coming from the beginning. But what is remarkable is how the characters meet their ends. After Lester spends the better part of ten episodes wiggling out of one jam after another following the mutually agreed upon murder of his wife by supernova of evil Lorne Malvo (Billy Bob Thornton), Lester finally dies by falling into a hole in the ice trying to evade the police, echoing the previous accidental death of a man mistaken for Lorne Malvo. Whether the death is by a plummeting air conditioner, the sudden random savagery of murdering twenty-two people in an office building, being hit by a car after murdering everyone in a diner or a car accident caused by a mysterious rainstorm of fish, the inevitable fate met by Fargo’s characters is probably one of the most satisfying and inventive aspects of Fargo.

Beautiful and Inventive Cinematography

I could spend pages just writing about the camera work done on this series. So many moments of stark beauty, creative storytelling and flat out kick ass cinematography. Case in point. The P.O.V. camera on the air conditioner falling in free flight. Or how about the final shot of the season opening pre-title sequence in East Berlin that slow zooms into a picture on the wall of what will become the Stussy backyard looking at rows of frosted trees in what is now the traditional Fargo title sequence. Gorgeous and forlorn horizontal lines of tundra and snow. The camera work on Fargo challenges the standard bearer Breaking Bad on creative placement and use of cameras.

Unspeakably evil characters with little to no compunction of any sense of morality

And…

Morally ambivalent characters who find themselves tempted to commit crimes either by accident or the temptation of a better life

In Fargo, these two categories go hand in hand. The absolute evil of Lorne Malvo and his ingenious yet devious means of eliminating his targets is an example of the first category from season one. As is the hilarious savagery of David Thewlis as the mobster/money launderer V. M. Varga in season three. The truly evil characters in Fargo don’t care a whit about life or the morality of protecting it. Inevitably, there is a huge chemical reaction when the truly evil meet the morally ambivalent. (spoiler alert – evil always wins due to a failure to recognize that evil doesn’t care about a “no rough stuff type of deal.”) The moments where the morally ambivalent see the true depths of depravity that humans are capable of recalls what Marge Gunderson was commenting on in that police cruiser.

What’s most remarkable about both the film and the television show is that writing never stoops to condescension; the plots and characters in Fargo are not being written in a fashion seeking to humiliate the people who live in the northern Midwest “flyover states.” Instead, the world Fargo inhabits is simply the setting of a grand drama, like Elsinore, Verona or Athens. The characters may have funny accents we’re not used to hearing, but they are fully developed three dimensional characters who only enliven and enrich what is arguably the best program on television.

#TV #articles

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mastcomm · 5 years ago

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These Artifacts Were Stolen. Why Is It So Hard to Get Them Back?

In 2004, Steve Dunstone and Timothy Awoyemi stood on a boat on the bank of the River Niger.

The two middle-aged men, both police officers in Britain, were taking part in a journey through Nigeria, organized through the Police Expedition Society, and had reached the small town of Agenebode, in the country’s south. Their group brought gifts with them from British schoolchildren, including books and supplies. The local schools had been alerted in advance, and a crowd came down to the river banks to meet them; there was even a dance performance.

It was a wonderful — if slightly overwhelming — welcome, Mr. Dunstone recalled.

In the back of the crowd, Mr. Awoyemi, who was born in Britain and grew up in Nigeria, noticed two men holding what looked like political placards. They didn’t come forward, he said. But just as the boat was about to push off, one of the men suddenly clambered down toward it.

“He had a mustache, scruffy stubble, about 38 to 40, thin build,” Mr. Dunstone recalled recently. “He was wearing a white vest,” he added.

The man reached out his arm across the water and handed Mr. Dunstone a note, then hurried off with barely a word.

That night, Mr. Dunstone pulled the note from his pocket. Written on it were just six words: “Please help return the Benin Bronzes.”

At the time, he didn’t know what it meant. But that note was the beginning of a 10-year mission that would take Mr. Dunstone and Mr. Awoyemi from Nigeria to Britain and back again, involve the grandson of one of the British soldiers responsible for the looting, and see the pair embroiled in a debate about how to right the wrongs of the colonial past that has drawn in politicians, diplomats, historians and even a royal family.

By the end, Mr. Dunstone and Mr. Awoyemi would have done more to return looted art to Nigeria — with two small artifacts — than some of the world’s leading museums, where the debate over the right of return continues.

World Treasures

The Benin Bronzes are not actually from the country of Benin; they come from the ancient Kingdom of Benin, now in southern Nigeria.

They’re also not made from bronze. The various artifacts we call the Benin Bronzes include carved elephant tusks and ivory leopard statues, even wooden heads. The most famous items are 900 brass plaques, dating mainly from the 16th and 17th centuries, once nailed to pillars in Benin’s royal palace.

There are at least 3,000 items scattered worldwide, maybe thousands more. No one’s entirely sure.

You can find Benin Bronzes in many of the West’s great museums, including the British Museum in London and the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. They’re in smaller museums, too. The Lehman, Rockefeller, Ford and de Rothschild families have owned some. So did Pablo Picasso.

Their importance was appreciated in Europe from the moment they were first seen there in 1890s. Curators at the British Museum compared them at that time with the best of Italian and Greek sculpture.

Today, the artifacts still leave people dumbstruck. Neil MacGregor, the British Museum’s former director, has called them “great works of art” and “triumphs of metal casting.”

There’s one place, however, where few of the original artifacts are found: Benin City, where they were made.

That may change. Benin’s royal family and the Nigerian local and national governments plan to open a museum in Benin City in 2023 with at least 300 Benin Bronzes. Currently the site is a bit of land that’s little more than a traffic island.

Those pieces will come mainly from the collections of 10 major European museums, such as the Humboldt Forum in Berlin, the Weltmuseum in Vienna and the British Museum. They will initially be on loan for three years, with the possibility to renew. Or, when those loans run out, other Benin Bronzes could replace them. The museum could become a rotating display of the kingdom’s art.

This hugely complex initiative — organized through the Benin Dialogue Group, which first convened in 2010 — is being celebrated as a chance for people in Nigeria to see part of their cultural heritage. “I want people to be able to understand their past and see who we were,” said Godwin Obaseki, governor of Edo State, home to Benin City, and a key figure in the project.

But is the Benin plan — a new museum filled with loans — a more practical solution than a full-scale return, long called for by many Nigerians and by some activists? That probably depends on what you think about how the Benin Bronzes were obtained in the first place.

Ill-Gotten Gains

On Jan. 2, 1897, James Phillips, a British official, set out from the coast of Nigeria to visit the oba, or ruler, of the Kingdom of Benin.

News reports said he took a handful of colleagues with him, and it’s assumed he went to persuade the oba to stop interrupting British trade. (He had written to colonial administrators, asking for permission to overthrow the oba, but was turned down.)

When Phillips was told the oba couldn’t see him because a religious festival was taking place, he went anyway.

He didn’t come back.

For the Benin Kingdom, the killing of Phillips and most of his party had huge repercussions. Within a month, Britain sent 1,200 soldiers to take revenge.

On Feb. 18, the British Army took Benin City in a violent raid. The news reports — including in The New York Times — were full of colonial jubilation. None of the reports mentioned that the British forces also used the opportunity to loot the city of its artifacts.

At least one British soldier was “wandering round with a chisel & hammer, knocking off brass figures & collecting all sorts of rubbish as loot,” Capt. Herbert Sutherland Walker, a British officer, wrote in his diary.

“All the stuff of any value found in the King’s palace, & surrounding houses, has been collected,” he added.

Within months, much of the bounty was in England. The artifacts were given to museums, or sold at auction, or kept by soldiers for their mantelpieces. Four items — including two ivory leopards — were given to Queen Victoria. Soon, many artifacts ended up elsewhere in Europe, and in the United States, too.

“We were once a mighty empire,” said Charles Omorodion, 62, an accountant who grew up in Benin City but now lives in Britain and has worked to get the pieces returned from British museums. “There were stories told about who we were, and these objects showed our strength, our identity,” he said.

He said that seeing the Benin Bronzes in the world’s museums filled him with pride, as they showed visitors how great the Benin Kingdom had been. But, he added, he also felt frustration, bitterness and anger about their being kept outside his country. “It’s not just they were stolen,” he said, “it’s that you can see them being displayed and sold at a price.”

Insult to Injury

Benin City has been calling for the return of its artifacts for decades. But a key moment came in the 1970s when the organizers of a major festival of black art and culture in Lagos, Nigeria, asked the British Museum for one prized item: a 16th-century ivory mask of a famous oba’s mother.

They wanted to borrow the work, to serve as the centerpiece of the 1977 event, but the British Museum said it was too fragile to travel. Nigeria’s news media told a different story, reporting that the British government had asked for $3 million insurance, a cost so high it was seen as a slap in the face.

That incident is still fresh in some Nigerians’ minds, more than 40 years later. At a recent meeting of the Benin Union of the United Kingdom, an expatriate group that meets at a church in south London, several members brought up versions of the festival incident when asked about the Benin Bronzes. Then they started criticizing British museums, which they said never seemed willing to return stolen items, despite repeated requests.

“I wouldn’t go there,” said Julie Omoregie, 61, when asked if she’d ever been to the British Museum, a half-hour away by subway, to see the mask. It was “an insult” that it was in the museum, she said. When she was a child, she recalled, her father would sing her a song about the raid, and she would cry every time. “It is time for them to give us back what they took from us,” she said.

David Omoregie, 64, another member of the group, said “The British are very good at telling you, ‘We are looking after it. If you’d been looking after it, it would have been stolen by now.’”

He agreed with that once, he said, but he didn’t anymore: “You can leave your car to rot outside your drive; at least it’s your car,” he added.

Some pieces stolen in the raid have gone back to Nigeria from institutions. In the 1950s, the British Museum sold several plaques to Nigeria for a planned museum in Lagos, for instance, and sold others on the open market. But those were not the free, full-scale returns people call for now.

Pressure for those types of returns has grown recently. In 2016, students at Jesus College, part of Cambridge University, campaigned to have a statue of a cockerel removed from the hall where it had been displayed for years. Last November, the college announced that the cockerel must be returned. (It has yet to say when or how.)

In the United States too, students have protested the presence of a Benin Bronze at the Rhode Island School of Design Museum. The museum has said it is looking to return the item, but was struggling to find out whom to actually work with: the Nigerian government, the Benin royal family or others.

But nothing has publicly gone back to Nigeria in decades, except, that is, for two small items. And, that’s thanks, at least in part, to Mr. Awoyemi and Mr. Dunstone.

Heading Back

When Mr. Dunstone got back to England from Nigeria, he couldn’t shake that note from his mind: “Please help return the Benin Bronzes.”

He didn’t even know what they were, he recalled recently, but Mr. Awoyemi did — he’d learned all about them and the 1897 raid as a teenager in Nigeria — and he filled Mr. Dunstone in.

Mr. Dunstone simply couldn’t understand why Britain still had the Benin artifacts, he said. That feeling grew one day when he went to the British Museum to look at its collection. He was blown away by the 50-odd plaques on display, and more so when a security guard told him that there were 1,000 more items in the basement. (In fact, the museum owns around 900 items from Benin, and many are in storage in another building.)

“We really did steal them,” Mr. Dunstone, now 61, said. “We weren’t at war, we turned up and hacked them off the walls.”

In 2006, Mr. Dunstone created a web page about the Benin Bronzes, with Mr. Awoyemi’s input. He added a note at the bottom of the page asking anyone with information about the whereabouts of any items to get in touch. The two men, who became friends as colleagues in the police force protecting the British royal family, even wrote to the oba in Benin and the Nigerian government, asking for permission to act as envoys to Britain’s museums to try and get the artifacts back to Nigeria.

No one replied, Mr. Awoyemi, 52, said. “We were so passionate,” he added, “but we were becoming frustrated with the whole thing.”

Mr. Awoyemi and Mr. Dunstone were just about to give up when, one day, in 2013, an email arrived. It was from a doctor from Wales named Mark Walker. Mr. Walker said he owned two of the looted items: a small bird that used to be on top of a staff, and a bell that had been struck to summon ancestors.

He wanted to give them back.

Mr. Walker, 72, is now retired and spends much of his time sailing. His grandfather was Captain Walker, who described the looting in his diary and took the pieces during the 1897 raid. They were once used as doorstops, Mr. Walker said, but after he inherited them they sat on a bookshelf, gathering dust. They’d be better off in Nigeria with the culture that created them, he said.

“My view is the British Museum should use modern technology to make perfect casts of its whole collection and send it all back,” he said recently. “You wouldn’t know the difference.”

At first, Mr. Walker didn’t want to go to Nigeria, afraid, Mr. Awoyemi said, that he might be prosecuted for having had them at all. But Mr. Awoyemi and Mr. Dunstone convinced him that the publicity from such a bold move could lead others to return items.

The Nigerian Embassy in London agreed to sponsor the trip, but pulled out when Mr. Walker insisted the items had to be returned directly to Benin City and the current oba, rather than to Nigeria’s president, Mr. Awoyemi said.

So Mr. Dunstone and Mr. Awoyemi mounted an amateur public relations campaign, securing appearances for themselves on radio and TV, to help raise the funds and show the royal court in Benin City that they were serious.

It worked.

In June 2014, Mr. Walker, Mr. Dunstone and Mr. Awoyemi headed to Benin City to return the artifacts to the oba.

The ceremony at the oba’s palace was as overwhelming as the welcome on the river bank that had begun the whole journey, Mr. Dunstone said. It was filled with so many dignitaries and journalists, there was initially no room for him.

Mr. Walker said he handed over the objects quickly, without fuss. In return, the oba gave him, just as calmly, a tray of gifts, including a modern sculpture of a leopard head’s that weighed about 40 pounds.

“I was horrified,” Mr. Walker said. “I’d gone all that way to get rid of stuff, not get more.”

Where Next?

If there aren’t more individuals like Mr. Walker on the horizon, looking to give unwanted artifacts back, is the new museum full of items on loan the best Benin City can hope for?

Maybe.

Nigerian government officials have played down the need for items to be permanently returned. Mr. Obaseki, the state governor, said at a news conference at the British Museum last year: “These works are ambassadors. They represent who we are, and we feel we should take advantage of them to create a connection with the world.” His message: Nigeria wants them on display in the world’s museums, not just in Benin City.

Some museums do appear open to returning looted objects permanently, rather than lending them. Last March, the National Museum of World Cultures in the Netherlands launched a policy to consider claims for cultural objects acquired during colonial times.

Nigeria could claim the museum’s 170 or so artifacts from Benin City under the policy, if it proves that the items had been “involuntarily separated” from their rightful owners, or that the items are of such value to Nigeria that it “outweighs all benefits of retention by the national collection in the Netherlands.”

German museums have agreed to a similar policy.

Given how many Benin Bronzes are in Western museums, it seems likely some requests made under those policies would be accepted.

Until the museum in Benin City is built, however, nothing is likely to be returned permanently unless it is done by individuals. No one has a firm idea how many looted items are in private hands, but they used to regularly come up at auction. (The record price, set in 2016, is well over $4 million.)

Mr. Dunstone said he had hoped that dozens of people would have come forward with items to return by now. The ceremony in 2014 received a flurry of media attention, and he went back to England expecting new Mr. Walkers to appear.

It didn’t happen. He got one email from a man in South Africa who claimed to have fished a Benin Bronze out of a river. He was willing to mail it to Mr. Dunstone for $2,500.

Mr. Dunstone, ever the police officer, suspected a scam and didn’t write back.

“I’m less proactive now,” he said. “But my heart’s still open.”

Mr. Awoyemi said he was disappointed, too, that no one came forward, but was excited by the museum plan. He was even willing to help with security, he said, if the oba would let him.

Mr. Walker can’t put the Benin Bronzes behind him, either. A few months ago, he was looking online at Benin Bronzes held by the Horniman Museum in London and came across an intricately carved wooden paddle. It was almost identical to two he had in his home, which he thought his parents had bought on vacation.

Then he realized his grandfather must have looted them from Benin City, too.

In December, he lent the paddles to the Pitt Rivers Museum in Oxford — a member of the Benin Dialogue Group — with one condition: They had to be returned to Benin City within three years.

He wasn’t going to be getting on a plane with Mr. Dunstone and Mr. Awoyemi this time. “It would be harder to get two six-foot paddles through customs,” he said. He also didn’t want his motives questioned. He’s wasn’t returning the items for glory, he said: They should just go back. It’s the right thing to do.

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andimarquette · 6 years ago

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Spring!! The time of renewal, rebirth, youth! Youth and spring go together like salt and pepper. So do youth and romance novels. In the 35+ years I have been reading romance I have read countless stories of 20-somethings finding each other. Sometimes we get a book with a 30-something, and rarely do we ever see women over 40 finding romance. That is changing, thankfully. See the list at the end.

There is something fascinating about one’s 20s. Most of us reading romance have been there, or aspire to be there. When I was a teen reading about young women in elegant ball gowns fluttering fans and trading bon mots with Earls and Dukes, I was eager to be old enough to trade bon mots with my own love interests. My 20s turned out to be a blur of child-raising. I know others for whom the 20s was a blur of working or partying or name-your-activity.

Many of us did find someone then, amid the blur, with varying degrees of success, and, sadly, no fluttering fans. Thankfully in my case there were, and are, bon mots. Many of us didn’t find someone then, or found two or three someones. Regardless, demographically, the 20s is a shared decade- whether we are mired in it or admiring it from afar, whether for the energy, the reliable body parts, or just the idea of having more life in front of you than behind.

It makes sense that books featuring 20-somethings sell well and readers and writers gravitate toward them. However, there is often so much more depth, freedom, and abundance to characters who have been through a few more seasons. Characters who have known triumph and loss, love and heartbreak. Characters whose bodies don’t always work exactly right, or who get interrupted frequently by children or aging parents, or who have the issues that go with widowhood or other kind of end to a long-term relationship.

While I enjoy a youthful romance as much as the next person, I was delighted recently to pick up a couple of romances with women who have some baggage in life. They come with a lot of life behind them and a lot of love and happiness ahead of them.

Hooked on You by Jenn Matthews features two middle-aged women with meddling children and a grandmotherly hobby, crochet. Being a long-time crocheter (since I was 9), I especially enjoyed the scenes in Ollie’s shop as she teaches Anna the different stitches. The book also features a delightful array of secondary characters.

Twice in a Lifetime by Jodie Griffin features Eve and Talia, discovering and exploring a passion that sparked fifteen years previously. Both of these characters are well-rounded with full lives. Neither is really looking and I love romance that comes out of nowhere to surprise both women.

I asked The Lesbian Review Book Club and some other friends for books that have come out in the past year or so that feature at least one woman over the age of 40. Here are a bunch of them:

The Music and the Mirror and Major Surgery by Lola Keeley

Write Your Own Script by A.L. Brooks

Chain Reactions by Lynn Ames

Lee Winter’s books- almost all of them.

Beowulf for Cretins by Ann McMan (get this one in audio – I’ve already listened to it 4 times)

The Goodmans by Clare Ashton

Jen Silver’s books feature many women over 40

Dingo’s Recovery by Genevieve Fortine

A Wish Upon A Star by Jeanne Levig and most of her other books

Choices by Lyn Gardner

Harper Bliss Pink Bean series

I’m Gonna Make You Love Me by Tracey Richardson

The True Heart series by Saxon Bennett and Layce Gardner

Mrs. Martin’s Incomparable Adventure by Courtney Milan

Scout and Lavender Girl by Kelly Littleton

Healing Springs by Rhavensfyre

Mulligan by KG MacGregor

Such Happiness as This by Laina Villeneuve

And for other recommendations check out Lee Winter’s blog post “Is Lesbian Fiction Ageist?…” and The Lesbian Review Book Club 40+ Archives.

Spring Has Sprung

Spring!! The time of renewal, rebirth, youth! Youth and spring go together like salt and pepper. So do youth and romance novels.

Spring Has Sprung Spring!! The time of renewal, rebirth, youth! Youth and spring go together like salt and pepper. So do youth and romance novels.

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scotianostra · 4 years ago

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In around 1874, after the deaths of both David Tod and John Macgregor, the shipbuilding business was sold and renamed as D. and W. Henderson and Company

#Scotland #scottish #shipbuilding #engineer #history #The Clyde

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nightsidewrestling · 2 years ago

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D.U.D.E Bios: Rhodri Rhydderch

The Ogre King of C.R.C Rhodri Rhydderch (2020)

Kirby's uncle and the brother of Hywel, Rhodri. An Irish-Catholic living in Wales and a goal-orientated but kind-hearted father. Don't mess with his children, especially not Fionn.

"You want your Shrek quotes, go to Fionn, not me."

Name

Full Legal Name: Rhodri Riagán Llew Cathassach Rhydderch

First Name: Rhodri

Meaning: From the Old Welsh name 'Rotri', derived from 'Rod' 'Wheel' and 'Ri' 'King'

Pronunciation: RAW-dree

Origin: Welsh

Middle Name(s): Riagán, Llew, Cathassach

Meaning(s): Riagán: From Old Irish 'Riacán', probably derived from 'Ri' 'King' combined with a diminutive suffix. Llew: Variant of 'Lleu' (Probably a Welsh form of 'Lugus', which is possibly from one of the Indo-European roots 'Lewk' 'Light, Brightness', 'Lewg' 'Dark' or 'Lewgh' 'Oath'), short form of 'Llewelyn' (A variant of 'Llywelyn' influenced by the Welsh word 'Llew' 'Lion'). Coincides with the Welsh word 'Llew' meaning 'Lion'. Cathassach: Means 'Vigilant' in Irish

Pronunciation(s): REE-a-gan. SHEW. KA-ha-sakh

Origin(s): Irish. Welsh, Welsh Mythology. Old Irish

Surname: Rhydderch

Meaning: From the given name 'Rhydderch' from the Old Welsh name 'Riderch', derived from 'Ri' 'King' and 'Derch' Exalted'

Pronunciation: HRUDH-ehrkh

Origin: Welsh

Alias: Ogre King, Rhodri Rhydderch

Reason: This is Rhodri's ring name

Titles: Mr

Characteristics

Age: 77

Gender: Male. He/Him Pronouns

Race: Human

Nationality: Welsh. Irish-Welsh Mix. Dual Citizenship ROI-UK

Ethnicity: White

Birth Date: December 5th 1943

Symbols: Ogres, Ogresses, Crowns

Sexuality: Heterosexual

Religion: Irish-Catholic

Native Language: Irish

Spoken Languages: Irish, Welsh, Scottish (Scots Gaelic), English

Relationship Status: Married

Astrological Sign: Sagittarius

Theme Song: 'Tutti Frutti' - Little Richard (1961-)

Voice Actor: Brendan Gleeson

Geographical Characteristics

Birthplace: Tullahought, Kilkenny, Ireland

Current Location: Llanfaethlu, Anglesey, Wales

Hometown: Llanfaethlu, Anglesey, Wales

Appearance

Height: 6'0" / 182 cm

Weight: 172 lbs / 78 kg

Eye Colour: Blue

Hair Colour: (Born Blond) Black

Hair Dye: None

Body Hair: An 'Average' Spread

Facial Hair: Clean Shaven

Tattoos: (As of Jan 2020) 20

Piercings: Ear Lobe (Both)

Scars: Surgical scars on his back

Health and Fitness

Allergies: None

Alcoholic, Smoker, Drug User: Smoker, Social Drinker

Illnesses/Disorders: None Diagnosed

Medications: None

Any Specific Diet: None

Relationships

Allies: (As of Jan 2020) The Rhydderch Clan

Enemies: (As of Jan 2020) None

Friends: Naoise Rhydderch, Uinseann Rhydderch, Yorath Rhydderch, Bran Rhydderch, Delwyn Rhydderch, Fergus Rhydderch, Hywel Rhydderch, Conall Pritchard

Colleagues: The C.R.C Locker Rooms / Too Many To List

Rivals: None

Closest Confidant: Grania Rhydderch

Mentor: Gearalt Rhydderch

Significant Other: Grania Rhydderch

Previous Partners: None of Note

Parents: Gearalt Rhydderch (R.I.P, Father), Angharad Rhydderch (101, Mother, Née MacMathan)

Parents-In-Law: Arran Kavanaugh (R.I.P, Father-In-Law), Briallen Kavanaugh (R.I.P, Mother-In-Law, Née Mac Ghabhann)

Siblings: Naoise Rhydderch (80, Brother), Uinseann Rhydderch (74, Brother), Yorath Rhydderch (71, Brother), Bran Rhydderch (68, Brother), Delwyn Rhydderch (65, Brother), Fergus Rhydderch (62, Brother), Hywel Rhydderch (59, Brother)

Siblings-In-Law: Too Many To List

Nieces & Nephews: Too Many To List

Children: Fionn Rhydderch (47, Son), Aisling O'Hannigan (44, Daughter, Née Rhydderch), Caoimhe O'Hannegan (41, Daughter, Née Rhydderch), Uilliam Rhydderch (38, Son), Ivor Rhydderch (35, Son), Eithne O'Hannagan (32, Daughter, Née Rhydderch)

Children-In-Law: Unity Rhydderch (48, Fionn's Wife, Née Sauvageon), Keaton O'Hannigan (45, Aisling's Husband), Cadell O'Hannegan (42, Caoimhe's Husband), Whitney Rhydderch (39, Uilliam's Wife, Née Sauvageau), Oneida Rhydderch (36, Ivor's Wife, Née Richelieu), Januarius O'Hannagan (33, Eithne's Husband)

Grandkids: Rachel MacGregor (27, Granddaughter, Née Rhydderch), Bruce MacGregor (28, Rachel's Husband), Queen MacEntire (24, Granddaughter, Née Rhydderch), Coinneach MacEntire (25, Queen's Husband), Pace Rhydderch (21, Grandson), Urve Rhydderch (22, Pace's Wife, Née MacEalair), Odin Rhydderch (18, Grandson), Naomh Rhydderch (15, Granddaughter), Macy Rhydderch (12, Granddaughter), Comhghall Rhydderch (9, Grandson), Kaiser Rhydderch (6, Grandson), Jacinth Rhydderch (3, Granddaughter), Ida Scott (24, Granddaughter, Née O'Hannigan), Cillian Scott (25, Ida's Husband), Hale O'Hannigan (21, Grandson), Briallen O'Hannigan (22, Hale's Wife, Née Sangster), Gabriel O'Hannigan (18, Grandson), Faith O'Hannigan (15, Granddaughter), Eartha O'Hannigan (12, Granddaughter), Dagda O'Hannigan (9, Grandson), Cade O'Hannigan (6, Grandson), Bambi O'Hannigan (3, Granddaughter), Aaliyah Wallace (21, Granddaughter, Née O'Hannegan), Matháin Wallace (22, Aaliyah's Husband), Zayden O'Hannegan (18, Grandson), Yorick O'Hannegan (15, Grandson), Xavia O'Hannegan (12, Granddaughter), Wednesday O'Hannegan (9, Granddaughter), Vance O'Hannegan (6, Grandson), Uhtric O'Hannegan (3, Grandson), Tacey Rhydderch (18, Granddaughter), Sadb Rhydderch (15, Granddaughter), Raeburn Rhydderch (12, Grandson), Quirinus Rhydderch (9, Grandson), Paisley Rhydderch (6, Granddaughter), Olive Rhydderch (3, Granddaughter), Napoleon Rhydderch (15, Grandson), Macdara Rhydderch (12, Grandson), Lalla Rhydderch (9, Granddaughter), Kayleen Rhydderch (6, Granddaughter), James Rhydderch (3, Grandson), Iain O'Hannagan (12, Grandson) Haidee O'Hannagan (9, Granddaughter), Garnet O'Hannagan (6, Granddaughter), Fabius O'Hannagan (3, Grandson)

Great Grandkids: Craig MacGregor (7, Great Grandson), Ceinwen MacGregor (4, Great Granddaughter), Ceridwen MacGregor (1, Great Granddaughter), Donald MacEntire (4, Great Grandson), Dougal MacEntire (1, Great Grandson), Vilija Rhydderch (1, Great Granddaughter), Commgán Scott (4, Great Grandson), Alexandria Scott (1, Great Granddaughter), Orlagh O'Hannigan (1, Great Granddaughter), Gwilym Wallace (1, Grandson)

Wrestling

Billed From: Kilkenny, Ireland

Trainer: The C.R.C Wrestling School, Gearalt Rhydderch

Managers: Grania Rhydderch

Wrestlers Managed: Grania Rhydderch

Debut: 1961

Debut Match: Rhodri Rhydderch VS Gearalt Rhydderch. Double Count Out

Retired: N/A

Retirement Match: N/A

Wrestling Style: Grappler

Stables: The Rhydderch Clan (1961-)

Teams: No Team Names

Finishers: Boston Crab, Senton, Sitout Gutwrench Powerbomb, High Angle Belly To Back Suplex

Refers To Fans As: The Fans, The Family

Extras

Backstory: Rhodri Rhydderch of the C.R.C (Welsh Wrestling League / Cynghrair Reslo Cymru) owning Rhydderch family. Rhodri has a 1/8th ownership of the promotion and is the 'Ogre Style’ (Grappler) trainer. He’s Half-Irish, Half-Welsh.

Trivia: Nothing of Note

#D.U.D.E #original character #Rhydderch #C.R.C Wrestling Family #C.R.C Wrestling Promotion #C.R.C Wrestling School #Rhydderch Clan

4 notes · View notes

jovebelle · 6 years ago

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I asked The Lesbian Review Book Club and some other friends for books that have come out in the past year or so that feature at least one woman over the age of 40. Here are a bunch of them:

The Music and the Mirror and Major Surgery by Lola Keeley

Write Your Own Script by A.L. Brooks

Chain Reactions by Lynn Ames

Lee Winter’s books- almost all of them.

Beowulf for Cretins by Ann McMan (get this one in audio – I’ve already listened to it 4 times)

The Goodmans by Clare Ashton

Jen Silver’s books feature many women over 40

Dingo’s Recovery by Genevieve Fortine

A Wish Upon A Star by Jeanne Levig and most of her other books

Choices by Lyn Gardner

Harper Bliss Pink Bean series

I’m Gonna Make You Love Me by Tracey Richardson

The True Heart series by Saxon Bennett and Layce Gardner

Mrs. Martin’s Incomparable Adventure by Courtney Milan

Scout and Lavender Girl by Kelly Littleton

Healing Springs by Rhavensfyre

Mulligan by KG MacGregor

Such Happiness as This by Laina Villeneuve

And for other recommendations check out Lee Winter’s blog post “Is Lesbian Fiction Ageist?…” and The Lesbian Review Book Club 40+ Archives.

Spring Has Sprung Spring!! The time of renewal, rebirth, youth! Youth and spring go together like salt and pepper. So do youth and romance novels.

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megadarkbouquettidalwavethings · 7 years ago

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EIS union calls for 10% pay rise for Scottish teachers

Image caption Both the EIS and the SSTA have raised the possibility of industrial action over pay if the talks do not lead to an acceptable offer

Scotland’s largest education union has called for a 10% pay rise for all teachers.

The Educational Institute of Scotland (EIS) said teachers’ pay had fallen in value by a fifth over the past decade.

Pay is negotiated nationally by the unions, councils and the Scottish government.

Responding to the claim from the EIS, a spokeswoman said the Scottish government would play its part in the discussions over teachers’ pay.

The claim is well in excess of the government’s proposed rise for many other public sector workers.

The 10% claim is likely to become the official position of the teachers’ side in the talks, which are set to begin shortly. It will firstly need to be ratified with the smaller teachers’ unions.

Both the EIS and the SSTA have raised the possibility of industrial action over pay if the talks do not lead to an acceptable offer.

The unions argue teachers’ pay should be restored to what they describe as “pre-austerity levels”.

EIS general secretary Larry Flanagan said: “We are launching our 2018 pay campaign today with a very strong and very clear message to local authorities and the Scottish government – Scotland’s teachers deserve a substantial pay rise.

“The Scottish government has repeatedly said that education is its number one priority, and local authority representatives have also spoken of the importance of teachers in the delivery of high quality education.

“Our campaign will reflect this, in urging that the teachers who are central to the provision of education be properly valued and fairly paid for the vital work that they do. A good first step towards restoring teachers’ pay to an acceptable level would be the delivery of a 10% pay increase for all teachers in 2018.”

In December’s Scottish budget, Finance Secretary Derek Mackay proposed a 3% pay rise for public sector workers earning less than £30,000 a year and 2% for those earning more.

Teachers’ pay is agreed by the Scottish Negotiating Committee for Teachers (SNCT), which is made up of unions, the government and councils.

‘Attractive career’

A spokeswoman for the Scottish government said: “Teachers’ pay is a matter for the SNCT and negotiations for 2018-19 will begin once the unions have formally lodged their pay claims. The Scottish government will play our part in those discussions.

“It should be noted this government was the first in the UK to commit to lift the 1% public sector pay cap, and the teachers’ pay deal for 2017-18 reflects this commitment.

“That deal also commits members of the Scottish Negotiating Committee for Teachers to undertaking a strategic review of pay and reward to ensure teaching remains an attractive career, and we will play our part in that process.”

Industrial action is still some way off, but both the EIS and the SSTA say they would be prepared to go down this path if necessary to secure what they describe as a “restorative” pay rise.

Before the EIS takes any action, there would need to be a ballot of members – the law now requires at least 50% of them to take part.

Mr Flanagan said teachers’ pay in Scotland had declined by at least 20% in real terms, compared to the Retail Price Index, over the past decade.

He said increases to pension contributions and national insurance meant they had suffered a real-terms cut of almost 25% in their take-home pay.

COSLA, the body which represents most of Scotland’s councils, confirmed it had received the pay claim from the EIS.

Resources spokeswoman Councillor Gail Macgregor said: “We have our first meeting on the pay deal for teachers in early February.

“We got the claim today which we will now take away and carefully consider – obviously taking full cognisance that, as employers, our pay awards have to be both sustainable and affordable.”

The post EIS union calls for 10% pay rise for Scottish teachers appeared first on dailygate.

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a-h-arts · 7 years ago

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As promised, a beautiful book I'm afraid I must respectfully disagree with other customers in the review section. For the price, this is a FIVE-STAR book. It is illustrated beautifully with full color photographs. I have the hard-copy and not the Kindle version (though I do own a Kindle). My guess is that the pages would present stunningly on the Kindle for iPad or Kindle for Mac. I also have a Kindle E-ink reader. I doubt it would show well on that last device. I noticed one of the reviewers criticized the photo quality. I must disagree. I find it to be top notch. It is presented in a matte format rather than glossy print.. so my guess is the reviewer would have preferred the glossy versions. I, on the other hand, love the matte finishes on all the photographs which are nicely crisp and detailed. Go to Amazon

excellent service This is an amazing book, it is interesting and has a readable text that is so often missed in nonfiction. Have listened to him on NPR and this is what made me want the book- gave it twice as a gift. Go to Amazon

The book lives up to it's good reviews Informative, not overwhelming Great book Fascinating and worthwhile A winner Five Stars Nice and valuable. Five Stars Five Stars Bring home a bit of the British Museum

#Historical #art #book

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