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kamreadsandrecs · 1 year ago

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by Adam Kirsch

In Elif Batuman’s 2022 novel Either/Or, the narrator, Selin, goes to her college library to look for Prozac Nation, the 1994 memoir by Elizabeth Wurtzel. Both of Harvard’s copies are checked out, so instead she reads reviews of the book, including Michiko Kakutani’s in the New York Times, which Batuman quotes:

“Ms. Wurtzel’s self-important whining” made Ms. Kakutani “want to shake the author, and remind her that there are far worse fates than growing up during the 70’s in New York and going to Harvard.”

It’s a typically canny moment in a novel that strives to seem artless. Batuman clearly recognizes that every criticism of Wurtzel’s bestseller—narcissism, privilege, triviality—could be applied to Either/Or and its predecessor, The Idiot, right down to the authors’ shared Harvard pedigree. Yet her protagonist resists the identification, in large part because she doesn’t see herself as Wurtzel’s contemporary. Wurtzel was born in 1967 and Batuman in 1977. This makes both of them members of Generation X, which includes those born between 1965 and 1980. But Selin insists that the ten-year gap matters: “Generation X: that was the people who were going around being alternative when I was in middle school.”

I was born in 1976, and the closer we products of the Seventies get to fifty, the clearer it becomes to me that Batuman is right about the divide—especially when it comes to literature. In pop culture, the Gen X canon had been firmly established by the mid-Nineties: Nirvana’s Nevermind appeared in 1991, the movie Reality Bites in 1994, Alanis Morissette’s Jagged Little Pill in 1995. Douglas Coupland’s book Generation X, which popularized the term, was published in 1991. And the novel that defined the literary generation, Infinite Jest, was published in 1996, when David Foster Wallace was about to turn thirty-four—technically making him a baby boomer.

Batuman was a college sophomore in 1996, presumably experiencing many of the things that happen to Selin in Either/Or. But by the time she began to fictionalize those events twenty years later, she joined a group of writers who defined themselves, ethically and aesthetically, in opposition to the older representatives of Generation X. For all their literary and biographical differences, writers like Nicole Krauss, Teju Cole, Sheila Heti, Ben Lerner, and Tao Lin share some basic assumptions and aversions—including a deep skepticism toward anyone who claims to speak for a generation, or for any entity larger than the self.

That skepticism is apparent in the title of Zadie Smith’s new novel, The Fraud. Smith’s precocious success—her first book, White Teeth, was published in 2000, when she was twenty-four—can make it easy to think of her as a contemporary of Wallace and Wurtzel. In fact she was born in 1975, two years before Batuman, and her sensibility as a writer is connected to her generational predicament.

Smith’s latest book is, most obviously, a response to the paradoxical populism of the late 2010s, in which the grievances of “ordinary people” found champions in elite figures such as Donald Trump and Boris Johnson. Rather than write about current events, however, Smith has elected to refract them into a story about the Tichborne case, a now-forgotten episode that convulsed Victorian England in the 1870s.

In particular, Smith is interested in how the case challenges the views of her protagonist, Eliza Touchet. Eliza is a woman with the sharp judgment and keen perceptions of a novelist, though her era has deprived her of the opportunity to exercise those gifts. Her surname—pronounced in the French style, touché—evokes her taste for intellectual combat. But she has spent her life in a supportive role, serving variously as housekeeper and bedmate to her cousin William Harrison Ainsworth, a man of letters who churns out mediocre historical romances by the yard. (Like most of the novel’s characters, Ainsworth and Touchet are based on real-life historical figures.)

Now middle-aged, Eliza finds herself drawn into public life by the Tichborne saga, which has divided the nation and her household as bitterly as any of today’s political controversies. Like all good celebrity trials, the case had many supporting players and intricate subplots, but at heart it was a question of identity: Was the man known as “the Claimant” really Roger Tichborne, an aristocrat believed to have died in a shipwreck some fifteen years earlier? Or was he Arthur Orton, a cockney butcher who had emigrated to Australia, caught wind of the reward on offer from Roger’s grief-stricken mother, and seized the chance of a lifetime? In the end, a jury decided that he was Orton, and instead of inheriting a country estate he wound up in a jail cell. What fascinates Smith, though, is the way the Tichborne case became a political cause, energizing a movement that took justice for “Sir Roger” to be in some way related to justice for the common man.

Eliza is a right-minded progressive who was active in the abolitionist movement in the 1830s. Proud of her judgment, she sees many problems with the Claimant’s story and finds it incredible that anyone could believe him. To her dismay, however, she lives with someone who does. William’s new wife, Sarah, formerly his servant, sees the Claimant as a victim of the same establishment that lorded over her own working-class family. The more she is informed of the problems with the Claimant’s argument, the more obdurate she becomes: “HE AIN’T CALLED ARTHUR ORTON IS HE,” she yells, “THEM WHO SAY HE’S ORTON ARE LYING.”

What Smith is dramatizing, of course, is the experience of so many liberal intellectuals over the past decade who had believed themselves to be on the side of “the people” only to find that, whether the issue was Brexit or Trump or COVID-19 protocols, the people were unwilling to heed their guidance, and in fact loathed them for it. It is in order to get to the bottom of this phenomenon that Eliza keeps attending the Tichborne trial, in much the same spirit that many liberal journalists reported from Trump rallies. Things get even more complicated when she befriends a witness for the defense, Mr. Bogle, who is among the Claimant’s main supporters even though he began his life as a slave on a Jamaica plantation managed by Edward Tichborne, the Claimant’s supposed father.

Though much of the novel deals with the case and the history of slavery in Britain’s Caribbean colonies, it is first and foremost the story of Eliza Touchet, and how her exposure to the trial alters her sense of the world and of herself. “The purpose of life was to keep one’s mind open,” she reflects, and it is this ability to see things from another perspective that makes her a novelist manqué.

Open-mindedness, even to the point of moral ambiguity, is one of the chief values Smith shares with her literary contemporaries. These writers grew up during a period of heightened tensions between the United States and the Soviet Union, then took their first steps toward adult consciousness just as the Cold War concluded. They came of age in the brief period that Francis Fukuyama called “the end of history.”

Fukuyama’s description, famously premature though it was, still captures something crucial about the context in which the children of the Seventies began to think and write. While the fall of Communism in Eastern Europe is sometimes remembered as the “Revolutions of 1989,” the mood it created in the West was hardly revolutionary. After 1989, there was little of the “bliss was it in that dawn to be alive” sentiment that had animated Wordsworth during the French Revolution. Instead, the ambient sense that history was moving steadily in the right direction encouraged writers to see politics as less urgent, and less morally serious, than inward experience.

In the fiction that defined the pre-9/11 era, political phenomena tended to assume cartoon form. Wallace’s Infinite Jest features an organization of Quebecois separatists called Les Assassins des Fauteuils Rollents—that is, the Wheelchair Assassins. In Smith’s White Teeth, one of the main characters joins a militant group named KEVIN, for Keepers of the Eternal and Victorious Islamic Nation. The attacks on the Twin Towers and the war on terror would put an end to jokes like these, but for a decade or so it was possible to see ideological extremism as a relic fit for spoofing—as with KGB Bar, a popular New York literary venue that opened in 1993.

For the young writers of that era, the most important battles were not being fought abroad but at home, and within themselves. Their enemies were the forces of cynicism and indifference that Wallace depicted in Infinite Jest, set in a near-future America stupefied by consumerism, mass entertainment, and addictive substances. The great balancing act of Wallace’s fiction was to truthfully represent this stupor while holding open the possibility that one could recover from it, the way the residents of the novel’s Ennet House manage to recover from their addictions. This dialectical mission is responsible for the spiraling self-consciousness that is the most distinctive (and, to some readers, the most annoying) aspect of his writing.

Dave Eggers set himself an analogous challenge in his 2000 memoir A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius. Writing about a childhood tragedy—the nearly simultaneous deaths from cancer of his mother and father, which left the young Eggers with custody of his eight-year-old brother—he aimed to do full justice to his despair while still insisting on the validity of hope. “This did not happen to us for naught, I can assure you,” he writes,

there is no logic to that, there is logic only in assuming that we suffered for a reason. Just give us our due. I am bursting with the hopes of a generation, their hopes surge through me, threaten to burst my hardened heart!

By the end of the millennium, this was the familiar voice of Generation X. Loquacious and self-involved, its ironic grandiosity barely concealed a sincere grandiosity about its moral mission, which was to defeat despair and foster genuine human connection. Jonathan Franzen, Wallace’s realist rival, titled a book of essays How to Be Alone, and for these writers, loneliness was the great problem that literature was created to solve. “If writing was the medium of communication within the community of childhood, it makes sense that when writers grow up they continue to find writing vital to their sense of connectedness,” Franzen wrote in his much-discussed essay “Perchance to Dream,” published in these pages in 1996. Eggers seems to have taken this idea literally, creating a nonprofit, 826 Valencia, that advertises writing mentorship for underserved students as a way of “building community” and rectifying inequality.

If sincerity and connection were the greatest virtues for these writers, the greatest sin was “snark.” That word gained literary currency thanks to a manifesto by Heidi Julavits in the first issue of The Believer, the magazine she co-founded in 2003 with the novelist Vendela Vida (Eggers’s wife) and the writer Ed Park. The title of the essay—“Rejoice! Believe! Be Strong and Read Hard!”—like the title of the magazine, insisted that literature was an essentially moral enterprise, a matter of goodness, courage, and love. To demur from this vision was to reveal a smallness of soul that Julavits called snark: “wit for wit’s sake—or, hostility for hostility’s sake,” a “hostile, knowing, bitter tone of contempt.” For Kafka, a book was an axe for the frozen sea within; for the older cohort of Gen X writers, it was more like a hacksaw to cut through the barred cell of cynicism.

This was the environment—quiescent in politics, self-consciously sincere in literature—in which Smith and her contemporaries came of age. Just as they started to publish their first books, however, the stopped clock of history resumed with a vengeance. It is unnecessary to list the series of political and geopolitical shocks that have occurred since 2000. For the millennial generation, adulthood has been defined by apocalyptic fears, political frenzy, and glimpses of utopia, whether in Chicago’s Grant Park on election night 2008 or in New York’s Zuccotti Park during Occupy Wall Street in 2011.

The children of the Seventies tend to feel out of place in this new world. It’s not that they naïvely looked forward to a future of peace and harmony and are offended to find that it has not materialized. It is rather that their literary gaze was fixed within at an early age, and they continue to believe that the most authentic way to write about history is as the deteriorating climate through which the self moves.

The self, meanwhile, they approach with mistrust—a reaction against the heart-on-sleeve sincerity of their elders. Many of them have turned to autofiction, a genre which is often criticized as narcissistic—a way of shrinking the world to fit into the four walls of the writer’s room. In fact, it has served these writers as an antidote to the grandiosity of memoir, which tends to falsify in the direction of self-flattery—as this generation learned from the spectacular implosion of James Frey’s 2003 bestseller, A Million Little Pieces. By admitting from the outset that it is not telling the truth about the author’s life, autofiction makes it possible to emphasize the moral ambiguities that memoir has to apologize for or hide. That makes it useful for writers who are not in search of goodness, neither within themselves nor in political movements.

For Sheila Heti, this resistance to goodness takes the form of artistic introspection, which busier people tend to judge as selfish and idle. In How Should a Person Be?, from 2010, a character named Sheila has dinner with a young theater director named Ben, who has just returned with a friend from South Africa. “It was just such a crushing awakening of the colossal injustice of the way our world works economically,” he says of their trip, that he now wonders whether his work as a theater director—“a very narcissistic activity”—is morally justifiable. Yet nothing could be more narcissistic, in Heti’s telling, than such moral preening, and Sheila instinctively resists it. “They are so serious. They lectured me about my lack of morality,” she complains. She loathes the idea of having “to wear on the outside one’s curiosity, one’s pity, one’s guilt,” when art is concerned with what happens inside, which can only be observed with effort and in private. “It’s time to stop asking questions of other people,” she tells herself. “It is time to just go into a cocoon and spin your soul.”

Teju Cole’s 2011 novel Open City offers a more ambivalent version of the same idea. Julius, the narrator, can’t justify his aesthetic self-absorption on the grounds that he is an artist, as Sheila does, since he is a psychiatrist. It’s an ironic choice of profession for a man we come to know as guarded and aloof. Cole builds a portrait of Julius through his daily interactions with other people, like the taxi driver whose cab he enters gruffly. “The way you came into my car without saying hello, that was bad,” the driver rebukes him. “Hey, I’m African just like you, why you do this?” Julius apologizes for this small breach of solidarity, but insincerely: “I wasn’t sorry at all. I was in no mood for people who tried to lay claims on me.”

Indeed, for most of the novel he is alone, meditating in Sebaldian fashion on the atrocities of history as he takes long walks through Manhattan. When, during a trip to Brussels, he meets a man who wants to intervene in history—Farouq, a young Moroccan intellectual who declares that “America is a version of Al-Qaeda”—Julius is decidedly unimpressed:

There was something powerful about him, a seething intelligence, something that wanted to believe itself indomitable. But he was one of the thwarted ones. His script would stay in proportion.

Open City can’t be said to endorse Julius’s aesthetic solipsism. On the contrary, the last chapter finds him trapped on a fire escape outside Carnegie Hall in the rain, a striking symbol of a man isolated by culture. Just moments before, he had been united with the rest of the audience in Mahlerian rapture; now, he reflects, “my fellow concertgoers went about their lives oblivious to my plight,” as he tries to avoid slipping and falling to his death. The scene is Cole’s acknowledgment that aesthetic consciousness remains passive and solipsistic even when experienced in common, and that danger demands a different kind of solidarity—one that is active, ethical, even political. Yet Cole conjures Julius’s aristocratic fatalism in such intimate detail that the “Rejoice! Believe!” approach—to literature, and to life—can only appear childish.

Writers of this cohort do sometimes try to imagine a better world, but they tend to do so in terms that are metaphysical rather than political, moving at one bound from the fallen present to some kind of messianic future. In her 2022 novel Pure Colour, Heti tells the story of a woman named Mira whose grief over her father’s death prompts her to speculate about what Judaism calls the world to come. In Heti��s vision, this is not a place to which the soul repairs after death, nor is it some kind of revolutionary political arrangement; rather, it is an entirely new world that God will one day create to replace the one we live in, which she calls “the first draft of existence.”

The hardest thing to accept, for Heti’s protagonist, is that the end of our world will mean the disappearance of art. “Art would never leave us like a father dying,” Mira says. “In a way, it would always remain.” But over the course of Pure Colour, she comes to accept that even art is transitory. In a profoundly self-accusing passage, she concludes that a better world might even require the disappearance of art, since

art is preserved on hearts of ice. It is only those with icebox hearts and icebox hands who have the coldness of soul equal to the task of keeping art fresh for the centuries, preserved in the freezer of their hearts and minds.

Tao Lin’s unnerving, affectless autofiction leaves a rather different impression than Heti’s, and he has sometimes been identified as a voice from the next generation, the millennials. But his 2021 novel Leave Society shows him thinking along similar lines as the children of the Seventies. In Taipei, from 2013, Lin’s alter ego is named Paul, and he spends most of the novel joylessly eating in restaurants and taking mood-altering drugs. In Leave Society he is named Li, but he is recognizably the same person, perched on a knife-edge between extreme sensitivity and neurotic withdrawal. In the interim, he has decided that the cure for his troubles, and the world’s, lies in purging the body of the toxins that infiltrate it from every direction.

Like Heti, Lin anticipates a great erasure. All of recorded history, he writes, has been merely a “brief, fallible transition . . . from matter into the imagination.” Sometime soon we will emerge into a universe that bears no resemblance to the one we know. Writers, Lin concludes, participate in this process not by working for social change but by reforming the self. “Li disliked trying to change others,” Lin writes, and believed that “people who are concerned about evil and injustice in the world should begin the campaign against those things at their nearest source—themselves.”

One way or another, writers in this cohort all acknowledge the same injunction—even the ones who struggle against it. In his new book of poems, The Lights, Ben Lerner strives to elaborate an idea of redemption that is both private and social:

I don’t know any songs, but won’t withdraw. I am dreaming the pathetic dream of a pathos capable of redescription, so that corporate personhood becomes more than legal fiction. A dream in prose of poetry, a long dream of waking.

The dream of uniting the sophistication of art with the straightforwardness of justice also animates Lerner’s fiction, where it often takes the form of rueful comedy. In 10:04, the narrator cooks dinner for an Occupy Wall Street protester, but when asked how often he has been to Zuccotti Park, he dodges the question. His activism is limited to cooking, which he pompously describes as a way of being “a producer and not a consumer alone of those substances necessary for sustenance and growth within my immediate community.” That the dream never becomes more than a dream betrays Lerner’s similarity to Lin, Heti, and Cole, who frankly acknowledge the hiatus between art and justice, though without celebrating it.

Zadie Smith has always been too deeply rooted in the social comedy of the English novel to embrace autofiction, yet she also registers this disconnect, as can be seen in the way her influences have shifted over time. When it was first published, White Teeth was compared to Infinite Jest and Don DeLillo’s Underworld as a work of what James Wood called “hysterical realism.” The book’s arch humor, proliferating plot, and penchant for exaggeration owe much to the author Wood identified as the “parent” of that genre: Charles Dickens.

When Smith says that a woman “needed no bra—she was independent, even of gravity,” she is borrowing Dickens’s technique of making characters so intensely themselves that their essence saturates everything around them—as when he writes of the nouveau riche Veneerings, in Our Mutual Friend, that “their carriage was new, their harness was new, their horses were new, their pictures were new, they themselves were new.” Dickens is a guest star in The Fraud, appearing at several of William Ainsworth’s dinner parties, and the news of his death prompts Eliza Touchet to offer an apt tribute: “She knew she lived in an age of things . . . and Charles had been the poet of things.”

But Dickens, who at another point in the novel is gently disparaged for his moralizing “sermons,” is no longer the presiding genius of Smith’s fiction. (Smith wrote in a recent essay that her first principle in taking up the historical novel was “no Dickens,” and she expressed a wry disappointment that he had forced his way into the proceedings.) Her 2005 novel, On Beauty, was a reimagining of E. M. Forster’s Howards End, and while her style has continued to evolve from book to book, Forster’s influence has been clear ever since, in everything from her preference for short chapters to her belief in “keep[ing] one’s mind open.”

Smith’s affinity for Forster owes something to their analogous historical situations. An Edwardian liberal who lived into the age of fascism and communism, Forster defended his values—“tolerance, good temper and sympathy,” as he put it in the 1939 essay “What I Believe”—with something of a guilty conscience, recognizing that the militant younger generation regarded them as “bourgeois luxuries.”

At the end of The Fraud, Eliza encounters Mr. Bogle’s son Henry, who has grown disgusted with his father’s quietism and become a political radical. He reproaches her for being more interested in understanding injustice than in doing something about it, proclaiming:

By God, don’t you see that what young men hunger for today is not “improvement” or “charity” or any of the watchwords of your Ladies’ Societies. They hunger for truth! For truth itself! For justice!

This certainty and urgency is the opposite of keeping one’s mind open, and while Mrs. Touchet—and Smith—aren’t prepared to say that it is wrong, they are certain that it’s not for them: “This essential and daily battle of life he had described was one she could no more envisage living herself than she could imagine crossing the Atlantic Ocean in a hot air balloon.”

Whether they style themselves as humanists or aesthetes, realists or visionaries, the most powerful writers who were born in the Seventies share this basic aloofness. To the next generation, the millennials, their disengagement from the collective struggle may seem reprehensible. For me, as I suspect is the case for many readers my age, it is part of what makes them such reliable guides to understanding, if not the times we live in, then at least the disjunction between the times and the self that must try to negotiate them.

#zadie smith #writing #books

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kammartinez · 1 year ago

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by Adam Kirsch

There was something powerful about him, a seething intelligence, something that wanted to believe itself indomitable. But he was one of the thwarted ones. His script would stay in proportion.

Writers of this cohort do sometimes try to imagine a better world, but they tend to do so in terms that are metaphysical rather than political, moving at one bound from the fallen present to some kind of messianic future. In her 2022 novel Pure Colour, Heti tells the story of a woman named Mira whose grief over her father’s death prompts her to speculate about what Judaism calls the world to come. In Heti’s vision, this is not a place to which the soul repairs after death, nor is it some kind of revolutionary political arrangement; rather, it is an entirely new world that God will one day create to replace the one we live in, which she calls “the first draft of existence.”

#zadie smith #books #writing

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everbecomesreal · 2 years ago

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On cynical days I feel like this conservative leadership election is only answering one question, is the conservative base more sexist or more racist, and as it turns out it's more racist.

#uk politics #liz truss #rishi sunak #I despair of this country #tories out #please let this government stop being in power now #as it turns out you can get worse than boris johnson

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becausegoodheroesdeservekidneys · 2 years ago

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From the news I'm getting here across the Pond, it seems like Liz Truss has perhaps achieved a marvel in that she's turning out to be more incompetent than Boris "Big Dog" Johnson. What are the chances the U.K. will have a new Prime Minister by the end of the year?

Yeah, she's exactly as competent really but, and this cannot be overstated, the person whose mess she's inherited IS Boris Johnson. But she compounds this with a Chancellor who is much, much worse.

Uh, this answer got long, sorry about that, but lol what can you do? Exercise restraint? Pfft.

By the end of the year... probably slim, as hilarious as the letters of no confidence are; the party can't survive another new leader that quickly. Johnson's greatest legacy - his greatest gift to the left - is the one he was always going to leave: he rose to power on a platform of 'feelings not facts', a method that is highly effective in the short term but horrendously unsustainable in the long run, once the shine of the bombast wears off and people realise that the bins aren't going out anymore. You cannot bluster and jazz hands your way through running a country indefinitely. You have to be competent at the daily grind.

Big Dog was not.

But during his tenure, everyone either threw all their weight behind him to suck his Union Jack-coloured cock and get a cushy ride themselves, or they were openly fired for disloyalty. He single-handedly created a Tory party that was defined by patriotism-flavoured incompetence. And then the bubble burst, and his old nemesis Mr Consequences came calling, and the situation was, very suddenly, that he was hot garbage - just absolute weapons-grade 'this is not a place of honour' levels of toxic - to have in charge of the party, but most importantly, crucially, none of them could get rid of him without also incriminating themselves.

That's why it took so long before the wave of resignations finally kicked things into happening. That's why it had to be a wave of resignations. None of the limping high school debating champions that were left in government could survive without him; even though he was actively poisoning them, they would die immediately with him gone. The tipping point came when finally that particular cost-benefit analysis see-sawed the other way.

And what's left? What was always going to be left: a hardcore radical group of 'feelings not facts' fascists, and an insipid hodgepodge of self-deluded clowns with the life skills of a particularly underwhelming five-year-old, all of whom are embroiled in bitter internal bitching wars and cliques and spend their days writing each other's names in a Burn Book rather than doing their jobs.

Everyone is blaming each other. No one is taking responsibility. The party can no longer agree on anything, except perhaps "Woe is us."

This latest leadership contest was actually a vicious thing that added to the damage and made the in-fighting worse. If we now add ANOTHER to the pile... well. I think we would see, at minimum, mass defections to UKIP. Very possibly some new political parties, like what Labour did when Jeremy Corbyn was too left-wing for them so Angela Smith and Chuka Umunna founded Change UK and claimed it was because Corbyn was racist and then Angela described people of colour as "black or a funny tinge... you know, a different... from the BAME community" and then Change UK was quietly dissolved after 10 months and no one remembers them anymore. It would be a disaster, is what I'm saying.

A new Chancellor, though... that's more likely, I think. Kwasi Kwarteng was rumoured to have had an affair with Liz Truss and honestly I strongly suspect that's why he got the job - he wrote a stupid book about economics that no one liked, on the night of the Brexit vote was overheard by a journalist saying “Who cares if sterling crashes? It will come back up again", and then became Chancellor, and then released a mini-budget last week that has tanked the pound to the lowest performance against the dollar since records began and immediately embroiled his PM into a financial crisis so bad she literally went into hiding for a day and a half. The UK is... actually completely fucked, as of this week. I cannot overstate what a fucking unmitigated disaster that budget is, or the damage it's causing. We were already doing very badly. This is catastrophic. This is like having an infected foot and everyone being concerned because it's turning gangrenous, and then Kwasi turns up and chops off both your legs and your dominant hand and then also the legs and dominant hands of everyone else present as well, except for himself and his rich mates. We are a long, long way beyond "First, do no harm."

But Kwarteng is also very replaceable.

However:

Liz Truss is extraordinarily stupid. I honestly don't know if it will occur to her to sacrifice him. If she's sensible she will; but 'sensible' is not a word I associate with Liz Truss.

The other option, of course, is an early general election being called, for the seven-hundred-and-fifteenth time in the last decade I stg. However, Tories only call for those if they stand a chance of winning.

One poll yesterday put Labour thirty-three points ahead of the Tories.

To put that into perspective, if that were to translate into a GE performance, the outcome of the vote would leave the Tories with...

THREE SEATS.

But! Of course! It's not so simple anyway:

That was an opinion poll, and those are always more extreme than an actual vote because people use them to express dissatisfaction. A vote would not be that extreme.

That was one of several polls yesterday. If we take an average, the actual figures are:

Labour are nineteen points ahead of the Tories.

Would you like some context?

In 1999 when Tony Blair won his landslide Labour victory - the greatest Labour lead in recent history - do you know what his polling lead was?

Twelve points.

Lol

So it is vanishingly unlikely the Tories will call a GE themselves. Their only hope now is that they can somehow do a good enough job to fix their party and win public confidence back before the next GE, which will be no later than January 2025.

In ENTIRELY UNRELATED NEWS I'm sure, Labour have just declared that they are backing a change to a proportional representation voting system in place of the UK's archaic first past the post system. Funny that.

#politik #the adventures of big dog the clown #going to need a new tag

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batboyblog · 3 years ago

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Hey what do you think of “pm” Bojo and his pathetic Operation Save Big Dog?

to translate for the non-Brits in the room:

they're talking about UK Prime Minster Boris Johnson who is currently in the middle of a scandal

cliff notes on the scandal which I've only been following in general terms because Boris is not my problem

long story short the UK had a lot of lockdown restrictions that people really did (do) follow, unlike America where people don't know how to act right. But turns out Boris Johnson's team at #10 (think the West Wing for Brits) have been having.... parties basically at #10 with booze and large groups together inside. understandably the British people who spent months and months unable to gather in groups bigger than 5 people where not happy to learn that the political staff leveling these restrictions on them were ignoring restrictions and having a swinging time of it

Boris has done his best to avoid responsibility, claiming they were work events (please ignore the drinking!) he didn't know about them! (even though he lives at #10) and for sure he was never at any of them, we promise! All his excuses are getting ripped to bits.

making things worse it seems the biggest party happened the night of Prince Philip's funeral, 30 people drinking it up at #10. This image of the Queen sitting alone because Covid rules meant none of her family could sit with her at the funeral, and the funeral of the Husband of The Queen, a father, grandfather and great-grandfather to future Kings of the UK was redistricted to just.... 30 people, has been going around a lot

you don't have to like the monarchy to understand how a sad picture of a little old lady all by herself at her husband's funeral has become a stand in for two years of not being able to see or hug loved ones, of missed funerals, and last goodbyes over zoom. Johnson apologized to the Queen but it was in the most shady way because how can he apologize without admitting he did in fact know and allow the party on the day of her husband's funeral?

any ways "Operation Save Big Dog" is the title of a leaked memo from inside Johnson's office. The memo was the game play to save his Prime Ministership, "big dog" is Johnson, the dickhead calls himself "big dog"

as for my thoughts on this hot mess? Johnson's fucked. Conservatives polling is in free fall, Labour under Keir Starmer is running ahead of the Tories by nearly double in the polls.

The Tory Party has a long history of knifing it's own leader's in the back when they're in trouble. I think that's what's gonna happen, Tory MPs are already turning on him, they'll force him out and replace him in hopes of fixing the problem.

#boris johnson #UK

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bleeding-star-heart · 2 years ago

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Tory politicians as ranked by me, an American, in terms of revolutionary symbols.

The ranking system is as follows: Very bottom is ‘The Marseillaise’ and the tricolor for the French Revolution, Meaning: burn the system down and start again. Mid-range is ‘Star Spangled Banner’ and Revolutionary War Flags a la Betsy Ross. Meaning: let’s be far, far away from you and have total independence. Top is ‘shrug’ and business suits. Meaning: ‘It’s not great but we can live with it.” We doubt many, if any, will earn this distinction. So Let’s go: Liz Truss: Three tricolors and “The Marseillaise”. Seriously, woman? Seriously?! You shouldn’t have closed down schools during the Covid lockdown? What is wrong with you? Do you like the idea of children catching Covid and dying?! Because that’s what tends to happen when you have an infectious disease and no vaccines or boosters? Not sure what that business with the pork markets is about, looked it up, still don’t get it. Also, for some reason, she wants to be enemies with France?! Rishi Sunak: two tricolors and ‘The Marseillaise.’ Also opposed Covid lockdowns, supported Brexit, and his idea of supporting the British economy was apparently to encourage people to eat at restaurants during Covid-which naturally increased Covid cases. Another of his economy-supporting plans fell victim to fraud, and in general his ideas just seem to fail a lot. Normal people who screw up that much get fired. Theresa May: Four Betsy Ross flags and the “The Star-Spangled Banner.” I looked up this ‘one-nation conservative’ thing she has going on, and well it sounds nicer than the GOP’s ideas, but stupid in that it trusts the upper crust a LITTLE too much. And in practice, she’s no angel either. Between seeming to have ZERO compassion for undocumented immigrants, SUPPORTING that war in Yemen, not wanting queer couples to adopt, and other things, I would perfectly understand if people didn’t like her. Also, she inflicted Trump on poor Queen Elizabeth II. (Whatever your opinion monarchy is, NOBODY deserves to have Trump inflicted on them). But at least she cared about police brutality maybe? And had the decency to condemn Myanmar’s treatment of the Rohingya. So, for that she gets “keep away from me” because I wouldn’t want to live in a country run by her. Boris Johnson: ALL the tricolors and a LOUD playing of “The Marseillaise”. Seriously, this is an embarrassment. Who on earth decided that a Trump clone should be in charge of the British government? I mean, the fact that Trump was the U.S.’s 45th president was shameful enough. And yet for some reason, instead of learning from our mistakes and avoiding the racist old man with bad hair, terrible taste and worse manners, and even worse policies, the British public elected him. Granted, you had the sense to kick him out when he copied the ‘sex scandal’ page from Trump’s book, but still. Don’t look shocked if Boris turns out to have stolen nuclear secrets too. Trump got elected in 2016, the British public put Boris in power in 2019. There was plenty of forewarning.

#uk politics #take with grain of salt

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wiypt-writes · 4 years ago

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Riding On

Ch 6: It’s A Nice Day For A White Wedding

Summary: It’s Jake’s wedding day and poor Fliss appears to be the only sober one in the Circle Of Truth…and then that all important question is answered. Is Baby Adler Pink or Blue? (Place your bets, please!)

Warnings: Bad Language words. SMUT (NSFW NO UNDER 18s!!) Also some pretty heavy anti-Trump ranting so if this offends anyone, sorry (but also not sorry… I think the guy is as much of a buffoon as Boris fcking Johnson)

Pairing: Frank Adler x Fliss Gallagher

A/N: Just so you know, I couldn’t decide whether to give them a boy or a girl��so I literally wrote both down on a piece of paper and picked.

Disclaimer: This is a pure work of fiction and classified as 18+. Please respect this and do not read if you are underage. I do not own any characters in this series bar Fliss Gallagher and the other OCs. By reading beyond this point you understand and accept the terms of this disclaimer

Riding On Masterlist // Main Masterlist

Chapter 5 And I would answer all your wishes, if you asked me to. But if you deny me one of your kisses, don’t know what I’d do. So hold me close and say three words like you used to do. Dancing on the kitchen tiles, yes you make my life worthwhile, so I told you with a smile, it’s all about you.

Bonnie and Fliss stood in the small room at the side, the crowd of people milling around between there and the outside patio area whilst the main room was set up for the party following the conclusion of the sit down reception.

"It was a nice meal." Bonnie smiled.

"Yeah, really thoughtful of them to have the non-alcoholic wine available" Fliss smiled. “Felt nice to taste something that made me feel like an adult again.”

She looked around and her gaze settled on Frank who was leaning against the bar, his red tie long discarded, collar of his dress shirt undone. He caught her eye, flashed her a smile and then turned back to Greg continuing their conversation.

"He hasn't taken his eyes off you all day." Bonnie smiled as Fliss turned back to her. "It's cute"

Fliss smiled "You know he got me flowers yesterday. When I got back from work he had already left to come up here and when I called him to ask what they occasion was he said he just felt like it." She paused "I get the feeling he is still trying to make up for Vegas but he doesn't need to. We're good."

Bonnie grinned. "Did he tell you what he actually said to the girl?"

"I don't think he remembers" Fliss shook her head.

"Si does. Apparently he said, and I quote 'why the fuck would I want a Big Mac when I got a prime fillet steak waiting for me at home?’ “

Fliss blinked, and then let out a huge snort of laughter which attracted the attention of a few people around them.

"How fucking rude"

"She deserved it by refusing to back off the first time. Ho." Bonnie shrugged.

"I don't mean that I mean him likening me to a piece of meat. Mind you, quite apt really..." she shrugged

"How so?"

"He is constantly fucking horny." Fliss dropped her voice "Not that I particularly mind but the last week or so he's been really, really bad. Take Thursday for example. I woke up to him poking me in the back so he got a blowjob before we got up, then he fucked me on the couch that evening when Mary had gone to bed and then when I woke up to go to the loo at 2 am we did it again."

Bonnie sniggered "Maybe you're giving off some kind of sex pheromone because you’re pregnant."

"I know you're joking but..." Fliss shrugged "He’s always had a high sex drive but since I started really showing he has gotten so much worse. I think he has some kind of breeding kink."

"Must be so hard being you..." Bonnie said sarcastically "Nice man that buys you flowers and can't keep his hands off you...”

"He is the one finding it hard not me" Fliss grinned and at that Bonnie tipped her head back laughing.

Frank heard his girl’s laughter from where he was stood and watched as she tipped her head back, attracting the attention of a few of the guests with her loud cackles. His eyes scanned down her frame and back up again, lingering slightly on the gentle curve of her bump just visible under her dress as it hung over her lower body. Her hair was pulled back into an elegant knot at the base of her neck, a few strands hanging loose around her face and her eyes were lidded with a light dusting of rose gold powder, making her brown irises pop even more. The necklace he had bought her a while back hung around her neck, settling just above her cleavage which looked fucking amazing in that dress.

The moment he had seen her earlier when she had arrived with Bonnie he’d felt the all too familiar stirring in his pants that he seemed to get every time he looked at her recently. His mouth had gone dry and he’d been totally ogling her, enough to cause Greg to slap him on his shoulder and tell him, jokingly, to stop being a pervert.

Frank hadn't replied. He’d waited long enough to allow himself to open up to someone so they could see the entire shit show he was. He was happy, more than happy in fact. So as for being a pervert where Fliss was concerned? Well, he had no intentions of stopping at all.

As he watched her now, aware he was once more staring at her, she tucked a piece of hair behind her ear and her hand went to her silver daisy pendant, gently twirling the silver chain in her fingers before she let go, pressing her hand over the pendant in the curve just above her breasts and that was it, he was done.

He wanted her, now.

Necking the short that Greg had passed him he patted his friend on his shoulder and told him he would be back shortly before striding over the room towards the two women. As he made his way over, dodging round a few people, he saw Fliss reached out and snatch Bonnie’s beer, taking a mouthful, letting out a groan of satisfaction. Bonnie’s eyes flew to him as he approached and he put a finger over his lips, telling her to be quiet.

“Pretty sure you ain’t supposed to have that…” Bonnie chastised, her eyes flicking back to Fliss as she took the bottle back.

“One mouthful won’t hurt.” Fliss replied, her shoulders rising in a shrug. “I always take a swig of Frank’s before I hand it to him…just don’t tell him.”

“Too late.” He leaned down and said in her ear, causing her to shriek slightly and jump as his hands settled on her hips, beard tickling her cheek and neck.

“Fuck! Fran, what you trying to do, send me into early labour?” she tilted her head to look over her shoulder at him before she glared at Bonnie “You could have warned me.”

Bonnie shrugged and grinned as she walked off. Fliss wrinkled her nose and turned in Frank’s arms, looking up at him sheepishly

“That was naughty.” he teased and she grinned a little.

“It was one mouthful…”

“I’m only teasing.” He smiled, dropping his mouth to hers in a sweet kiss and she sighed. He tasted of scotch and the cheesecake that they’d had for desert. “I told you before, one glass or one bottle won’t hurt if you want one.” “No, I don’t.” She shrugged “Just wanted a little taste that’s all.”

“Yeah well, now I want a taste of something.” “What are you talking about?”

“I want you.” He said, his mouth by her ear and he felt her still slightly, her breath hitching and he grinned, planting a soft kiss to the crook of her shoulder. He knew the effect those words had on her, being wanted as opposed to needed, it was a subtle difference, but one he knew meant something to her, and him for that matter.

“What, now?” She looked at him as he pulled away, glancing around the room before he looked back down at her.

“Right now.” He nodded.

“Are you serious?”

“Deadly.” He looked at her, “What’s the Ladies bathroom like?”

“You wanna do me in the ladies.” She deadpanned as he tugged her hand and pulled her away from the crowded foyer towards the bathroom.

“Yup.” He checked around once more to see if anyone was watching, before he opened the door and nudged her back gently with his hand so she entered the room in front of him.

“Wow, romantic, Frank.” Fliss said sarcastically as she arched an eyebrow, turning to face him.

“I’m being spontaneous.” His eyebrow arched as he backed into the cubicle, pulling her with him, reaching round to lock the stall door.

“There’s nothing spontaneous about you wanting to jump my bones” She looked up at him as her purse clattered to the floor, “You’re constantly after a bit at the moment.”

“Can you blame me Sweetheart?” he whined, looking down at her, his eye-line trained on her cleavage “You turn up…looking like that…been killing me sat next to you all afternoon. Frankie has needs.”

“My face is up here jackass!”

“I know.” he said, his gaze not moving “I was talking to Ben and Jerry.”

“Ben and Jerry.” Fliss scoffed “You named my boobs?”

“Only since they got bigger.” he grinned as his eyes moved back to hers

“Why Ben and Jerry?” she asked as his hands gripped at her hips.

“Because they’re delicious and soft like ice cream.”

Fliss snorted and he grinned at her, his eyes glazed slightly.

“You’re drunk” she stated.

“Nah ah, it’s hormones.” he said seriously.

“No.” Fliss laughed “I’m pretty sure you’re drunk. I saw you, Simon and Greg before, all necking from the hipflasks you each have in your pocket whilst they were taking the photos.” “Yeah, but.” Frank shook his head “I aint that drunk. Scouts honour.” “Like you were ever in the scouts.” she laughed, her hand brushing through his hair.

“Actually I was, you can ask the mothership.” he assured her “They kicked me out after 5 months thought. I made rude words out of a load of string that we were supposed to be using to mark out a flower bed at the old people’s home.”

Fliss let out a groan “Bean is gonna be a monster.”

“No they won’t” he shook his head “Gonna be sweet…” he placed a kiss to her lips. “…and gentle, just like their mamma bear.”

His hand moved to cup her cheek, fingers grazing her neck as he pressed his mouth to hers. The kiss quickly became heated and Frank pressed up against her, the door to the cubicle rattling slightly, neither of them paying it much attention. His other hand grabbed a fist full of her dress, and he was just hoisting the tulle layers up when the noise of voices hit their ear as the door to the bathroom opened. They both stopped dead, and Fliss bit her lip to stop herself from laughing as Frank grinned down at her, his finger flying to his lips as his shoulders shook with his silent sniggers. A few doors down the cubicle door opened and they waited for whoever it was to finish. Eventually the toilet flushed and the door unlocked, before the tap began to run.

“I’d hurry up you guys…” Bonnie spoke, amusement in her tone as Frank and Fliss looked at each other, “You’ve been gone 10 minutes already.” At that Fliss burst out giggling as Frank snorted and his face dropped to Fliss shoulder where he pressed a kiss to her skin, his lips sliding up to her neck, gently nipping beneath her ear, his hands fondling her breasts over her dress. She gave a low groan and he smirked against her skin.

“Still don’t wanna?” he teased and she shook her head.

“Fine, just…get on with it then you twat.” she mumbled into his ear and he looked at her, grinning.

“I love it when you swear in British baby.”

“I can talk dirty in British too…” she quipped.

Frank gave a groan, slanting his mouth on hers as he pulled her with him, her fingers undoing his belt and trousers, pushing them down with his boxers over his hips, before he sat down on the closed toilet, taking himself in his hand and pumping himself a few times until he was rock hard as she leaned down, kissing him.

“Turn round…” he said against her mouth and she did as she was told. His hands bunched her skirt up to her hips and she reached down to move it of the way as he grabbed her hips and pulled her down, shifting her underwear to one side. In a fluid moment she sank down onto him, both of them letting out soft moans as Frank’s arm circled her waist protectively around her bump as she tipped her head back against his shoulders, his hips moving upwards.

She ground down on him, rotating her hips and he let her set the pace, more than happy to simply sit there, holding her, trailing sloppy kisses over the exposed skin on her back. The hand that wasn’t round her waist moved up to the front of her dress, slipping inside the low plunge neck line to her bra-les breast, rolling her nipple softly causing her to shudder and push down on him further.

“Fuck, Lissy…” he groaned, his forehead pressing on her shoulder “Feel so good baby girl..”

Her response was a low pant of his name as her hips moved faster, snapping back and forth as she pushed down even further, seeking out the friction she desperately needed. Her head tilted and he caught her mouth in a sloppy kiss, swallowing another moan as she pushed down further, his hands pulling her onto his lap as he fucked up into her over and over.

It was dirty, quick and in his many times with women he wasn’t quite sure he’d fucked anyone in a bathroom before, certainly an alley way or two, a dark corner of parking lot too, but it didn’t matter either way as he was damned sure it wouldn’t have been as good as this, the woman who was carrying his baby, the woman he loved with all his heart bouncing on his lap as they both raced to their ends. As Fliss tightened down, her head rolling back, she parted her lips and let out a low keen as Frank’s hand gently moved upwards, his fingers caressing the font of her throat as he held her against him, turning her head towards his so he could catch her mouth in a filthy kiss as he pushed up for a final time and came with a grunt. They both sat still for a while before he gave a little hum as Fliss chuckled as his hands wrapped around her, resting on her bump.

“You’re a bad man.” she mumbled and he grinned, giving her a quick kiss.

“Yeah but I’m your bad man.”

With a snort Fliss stood up and Frank rearranged himself, standing up and pulling up his pants. With another soft kiss Fliss told him to go out ahead of her whilst he sorted herself out so as not to attract too much attention to where they had been, even though she was pretty sure Bonnie had already told their friends.

Telling her he would meet her at the bar, with a final peck to her lips Frank headed out of the cubicle. He quickly checked his appearance in the mirror and once he’d straightened his suit and smoothed his hair down slightly he pulled the door open to be met with a round of applause as Simon and Greg stood by the pillar outside the bathroom, both grinning as they clapped.

Frank grinned as simply took a bow before the three of them laughed and Greg slapped him on the back as the three of them headed to the bar.

***** “Welcome to the dance floor….” The DJ’s voice rang out over the room “The new Mr and Mrs Neill…”

Jake swept Lisa out onto the floor and Fliss smiled, watching a the woman’s dress billowed out behind her and he took her into a hold as the opening bars to Signed, Sealed Delivered by Stevie Wonder rang out. Jake began to twirl Lisa around, the pair of them laughing a various people took photos, recording. Frank dropped a kiss to the side of Fliss’ temple and she smiled as his fingers curled around her hip.

“They look so happy.” Fliss smiled.

“Yeah.” Frank nodded “Good job really, seeing as they just got married.”

Fliss smiled and then there were some giggles as Jake and Lisa’s young girls ran onto the dancefloor to join their parents, which gave the couple the signal to wave everyone else in to join them.

“Shall we?” Frank asked, turning to face Fliss and she grinned.

“Lead the way Sailor.”

They stepped out onto the dancefloor where Frank gently took her left hand in his right, his other hand curling round her back, fingers splaying at the bottom of her spint.

“Can’t pull you quite as close as I’d like.” he quipped glancing down and Fliss shook her head as she looked at him, a soft smile spread across his face “You’re beautiful.” “You’re not so bad yourself, handsome.” she smiled as he twirled her around the floor, his movements upbeat in time with the song. He was actually a pretty good dancer, which Fliss knew already from the various times they’d been out, but it never failed to make her smile the way he could move so gracefully for such a tall, broad shouldered man. When she had passed comment on it once he had grinned and informed he that it was ‘all in the hips’, hips that were now easily snaking side to side as he moved in time with the music, stepping back from her a little, his hands taking hers. Fliss laughed, simply dancing along with him and eventually the music changed into another upbeat song. The pair of them stayed were they were, dancing with their friends and enjoying themselves until after about 20 minutes or so Fliss declared she was out, and needed the bathroom again before she was going to sit down.

“To pee this time, right?” Bonnie called after her. Fliss didn’t even look back, simply raised her finger up over her shoulder as she left the dancefloor.

Once she had washed her hands she touched up her make-up, glancing at her cheeks which were quite flushed from the heat and the dancing, before she headed out. Frank was waiting for her by the door.

“People will talk, you hanging around outside the Ladies.” she grinned.

“Only one lady for me.” he winked back and she shook her head.

“Smooth.” “I try.” he grinned, kissing her cheek “Wanna get a drink?”

“Yeah.” she smiled, slipping her hand in his as he led her over to the bar.

Frank ordered himself a beer, deciding he needed to take a break from the hard-stuff and Fliss a water. As she took it from him with a thanks she glanced around watching everyone dancing and milling around, cocking her head to one side, a thoughtful look on her face.

“Penny for em.” Frank said and she turned to look at him smiling.

“Nothing of interest really.” she mused “Just thinking about all this. It’s been a nice day and a lovely ceremony and clearly what Lisa and Jake wanted but…” “Not what you want.” Frank smiled “Yeah, I know.” “But what about you?” she asked, looking at him. “I know we joke about how I’ve been there and done it but…” “Liss.” he cut her off, his hand curling round her hip. “Do you really think that all this showy shit is my style?”

“No, not really.”

“Exactly.” he smiled at her “I told you, I’d be happy to run away, me, you and Mary and do it with just the 3 of us there. But I’d probably get lynched by your mom and dad so…” He pulled her into his side closer, dropping a kiss to his head “It can be whatever we want it to be.”

We.

That word hit her hard, because her last wedding had been all about how her stupid bastard of a husband wanted to show the world how rich and special he was. There wasn’t a thing about that day she had chosen for herself, including her dress and her bridesmaids. She looked up at Frank, her eyes clouding slightly and he chuckled, shaking his head at her sudden emotion.

“Come on, let’s go sit down.” he smirked, nodding to a table at the side of the room where Simon was just taking a seat. Fliss nodded and allowed him to lead her over.

As is usually the case with weddings, people flit around all over the place. Fliss found herself dancing again with Bonnie, then talking to a few of Jake’s old school friends, then to some of Lisa’s friends, one of whom had her own horse so they got caught up in a lengthy chat about show-jumping and before long she realised she’d been away from Frank for well over an hour without realising. She finished up the conversation and headed back to where he was sat at a table, animatedly discussing something with a white haired gentleman, Bonnie watching him with a slightly amused expression.

"The guy is a fahking melt..." Fliss heard Frank groan as he leaned back in his chair, shaking his head.

"Who is he talking about?" Fliss asked as she sat down next to Bonnie.

"Trump" Bonnie replied, grinning.

"Oh this should be fun..." Fliss smirked, and Bonnie nodded.

"The guy he is talking to is apparently a big fan..." she turned to face Fliss, "But he's yet to give any kind of pro- Trump argument which Frank deems worthy of consideration. Oh, and Frank is getting more Boston with every sentence.”

“Yeah he does that.” Fliss she said, fondly turning her attention to Frank who shook his head and wrinkled his nose.

"You're being disrespectful." The man who Frank was talking to shook his head "He's our president."

Frank scoffed "Disrespectful? Not really, I just find it beyond comprehension that this country elected such a damaged, sociopathic narcissist."

"Say what you mean Frank." Bonnie nodded sagely and Fliss bit her lip to stop herself from laughing. Frank was in full flow, however, and fuelled by the amount of alcohol in his system he wasn't about to stop any time soon.

"John Oliver hit the nail on the head." he continued, necking the last of his beer. "Trump could be drowning in the damned ocean and he'd there, waving the lifeboats away screaming 'get out of here, I'm very buoyant, I'm the most buoyant. Everybody talks about my buoyancy... I'm a tremendous floater' ...fahkin jack-ass."

"Who got Frankie boy talking about Trump?" Simon asked, placing the tray of drinks down and handing them out. Fliss took her Sprite with a thanks as he slid a short tumbler of scotch over the white table cloth to Frank, before flopping down on the other side of Bonnie, dropping a kiss to her cheek. Bonnie nodded to the gentleman who was now saying something back, to which Frank let out a lout guffaw of laughter as Greg settled into a seat a few down from Fliss.

Simon grinned "Come on Jack!" he spoke and the man turned to face him "It's a wedding, no politics."

"I only stated I happened to agree with his policy of putting American's first..." the man held his hands up.

"And I only pointed out that his misguided beliefs that migrants are to blame for all of America's ills are exactly that, misguided." Frank shrugged, shooting a wink at Fliss as he reached for the glass of amber liquid in front of him. "People should look closer to home...at the people who run the damnedcountry, not everyone in it merely tryin'a make a living..."

"His policies made sense when I read them..." the man called Jack shrugged. “Well thought out, articulate…” At that Frank leaned back, shaking his head, an unbelieving smile on his face as he gave a groan “Articulate…come on…”

"You kniow..." Bonnie leaned forward "A random monkey hitting keys for an infinite amount of time will eventually come up with the works of Shakespeare" she swallowed the rest of her drink. "All Trump really needs to be considered one of the greatest Presidents of all times is an infinite amount of time and a monkey that can type."

At that Frank snorted into his glass and reached over the table, holding his hand up. Grinning Bonnie hi-fived him and Simon, Greg and Fliss exchanged a glance, before Fliss leaned forward.

"You know how they measure horses in hands." she said and Frank turned his attention to his girl, his eyes shining "well he must have the biggest horses on the planet." she said, making a claw like gesture with her right hand and Frank let out another loud bellow of laughter, his hand flying to his stomach.

"And why are his eye sockets always white?" Greg asked, looking into his glass like it held the answer before he glanced round at them all. "Like, you think someone would tell him to use the sunbed without the goggles every once in a while..."

At that Jack shook his head and stood up, walking away.

"Something we said?" Bonnie asked, innocently as Simon leaned back in his chair and spoke, his talent for impressions ringing out across the table as he imitated the President's voice perfectly "I'm going to build a wall, and it will be the greatest wall ever known to man, even better than China's...my time as President will go down in history as being part of America's dumbass years, the most dumbass years ever..."

As the 5 of them laughed, Jake plopped down at the table, pointing at Simon, then Frank then Greg.

"No politics at my wedding, bitches."

"We're not talking politics..." Frank hiccupped slightly "We were just roasting the cheeto skinned, toupee wearing prick."

"His dad should have definitely wiped him on a curtain." Greg nodded, causing everyone at the table to laugh once more.

"All that sperm and he got there the quickest." Simon sighed "Makes me wanna cry."

"You know what is gonna make you cry?" Jake looked at him "My foot up your ass. Come on guys, this is my fucking wedding. Let’s go do shots and rip up the dancefloor!"

"Oooh...shots..." Bonnie nodded, standing up.

"What happened to taking it easy in solidarity?" Fliss narrowed her eyes at her, patting her bump.

"I'm weak." Bonnie shrugged as Simon tugged her to the bar, Greg rising to follow them.

"Frank?" Jake asked

"I'll pass." he smiled

"I could get em to make you an apple juice shooter?" Jake offered as he patted Fliss' shoulder. She flipped him the bird as he walked off, chuckling to himself.

Frank pause for a moment, taking in his girl's slightly flushed cheeks before he stood up, grabbing his glass which contained what was left of his short, and rounded the table to sit next to her.

"C'mere..." he said, patting his knee. She stood up and settled on his lap, his arm curling round her waist, fingers brushing the side of her bump "You ok?"

"Yeah." she smiled "Which is more than you're gonna be in the morning."

"I'll live" he smirked, necking the rest of his liquor. "No one has ever died from a hangover Sweetheart."

"There's time." she smiled and he grinned up at her, placing his glass on the table.

"How's Bean?"

"Cooking." she grinned

"And Momma bear?"

"You asked me that a few seconds ago."

"And I'm asking again."

"In that case I'm still fine." she grinned leaning down to give him a peck. Frank smiled at her as she leaned back, his hand brushing her hip as he looked around the room.

"I wanna get married." he said, looking back to Fliss.

"We are."

"No, I mean like actually do it." he smiled "I wanna set a date."

"Don't you think we have enough to organise?" Fliss chuckled "Finding a house seeing as you're so adamant you want to move before Bean arrives..."

"They need a nursery." he pouted and Fliss smiled, running her hands through his hair.

"So you tell me." she replied "And then there's actually a small matter of me giving birth..."

"Piece of cake..."

"Oh really?" she looked at him "How about you squeeze a bowling bowl out of your vagina and then tell me it's easy..."

Frank laughed and grinned up at her "You'll be amazing...you always are." he placed a kiss to her bare shoulder. "But seriously...don't you wanna marry me?" he pouted.

"No, I just took this ring because it was shiny." Fliss rolled her eyes at him "Of course I do."

"Well...couldn't we just like pick a month...so...I have some kind of marker in the sand?"

Fliss looked at him as he turned his puppy dog eyes on her and she shook her head, giving a soft huff

"You're such a soft bastard when you're drunk."

He shrugged "I can't help it. You make me feel things."

"And I don't when you're sober?" she teased.

"Shut up." he looked at her and she grinned, running her hand through the whiskers on his face. His beard was now actually pretty impressive as he'd let it grow out properly, it was way beyond the untidy, short stubble it had been when she'd first met him. But then again he was also quite far removed from that fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants, lost and damaged man he had been. He'd grown, a lot. And so had she. He knew it, she knew it...and the fact they had done it together made it all the more meaningful and special.

"September." Fliss smiled "Next year. Bean will be 1 by then and things will have settled. Think you can wait that long?"

Frank beamed at her "Yeah? You mean it?"

She nodded.

"Then September 2020 it is." his lips stayed curled up at the side as she dipped her head again and pressed her mouth to his. She pulled back, and found herself mimicking the infectious smile on his face. "I can't wait to make you Mrs Adler." he whispered.

"Who says I'm changing my name?" She teased and he frowned a moment before he shrugged.

"I just assumed..."he began to back track "I mean if you don't want..."

"Frankie..." Fliss cut him off, her hands cupping his face "I'm joking. I can't wait to have the same surname as you, Mary and our little one."

"God I fahkin love you..." he spluttered and she laughed, leaning back a little bit. At that point the opening bars to Hungry Like The Wolf hit their ears and Fliss heard Bonnie shriek her name.

"Miami BITCHES, HOLLERRRR!" Simon yelled as he leaned on the back of Frank's chair.

"Shall we?" Fliss asked, standing up. Frank grinned, took her hand and allowed her to pull him onto the dancefloor. As she began to dance and laugh with Bonnie his hand fell to her hips, pulling her back against him, just like he had done all those months ago in Miami, before everything had taken such a huge change in direction. A dramatic change, but a change he was loving day by day. As he felt her push back slightly against his groin he gave a low groan and bent over.

“Stop it or I’ll be dragging you off to the bathroom again.”

She tilted her head, looked at him all doe eyed and innocent and he shook his head, arching and eyebrow.

“Ok, ok, I’m sorry.” she spluttered and he rolled his eyes before she turned round to carry on dancing, this time behaving herself.

As it was getting later into the evening, after a few more 80s hits the music took a turn and dimmed into something softer, and Fliss cocked her head to the side as Frank reached out to her, pulling her to him.

“What is this?” she asked.

“It’s called God Gave Me You.” Frank said, his fingers curing around hers “By Blake Shelton. He’s a Country singer.”

“Ohh, the dude that’s with Gwen Stefani.” Fliss nodded.

“Yeah, I heard it for the first time in ages in the truck the other day.” Frank said “When we went to Tampa.”

“I thought it sounded familiar.”

He smiled, refraining from telling her he’d been playing it on a damned loop for days since because every time he heard it, it simply reminded him of her.

As he steered her around, he became lost in the lyrics, not really paying attention to anything but realising how much they stuck home, how they were true to what he felt about Fliss. How he had been a mess until she’d appeared and given him everything he didn’t even realise he needed and more. How she had fit so perfectly into his and Mary’s life. How she was now carrying his child. How he would always love her…

He felt her squeeze his hand and he looked down and she was grinning at him.

“You’re singing.”

“Am I?” he asked, giving a soft chuckle “Sorry, I didn’t realise…”

“Don’t worry about it, no one else heard. Besides you have a good voice, not like mine.”

“Well, I wasn’t gonna say anything but the other day when you were singing in the shower Mary thought Fred was stuck somewhere and crying to get out.” Fliss laughed and shook her head “Yeah it isn’t one of my talents. I’ll leave it to you.”

He smiled and gave her a soft kiss.

“You singing it to me or Bean?” Fliss asked, smiling at him as he twirled them round slightly.

“Without you there would be no Bean.” He shrugged simply and at his words he saw her eyes misting over.

“Frankie…” she muttered and he chuckled slightly, his hands cupping her face.

“Baby, what’s…”

“That’s so sweet and…” she spluttered shaking her head “Fucking hormones”

He laughed and pulled her closer, still swaying to the music and she let out a sight. Frank felt her sagging a little in his arms and then it struck him. It was almost midnight. She had been up since 8, they’d been out at this wedding one way or another for almost 12 hours now and she was 5 months pregnant.

“You tired honey?” he asked and she shook her head where it was pressed against his chest. “Liar.” he kissed her head softly.

“Ok maybe a little.” she looked up at him

“Wanna go?”

“It’s still early.” she looked at him. “I don’t mind if you want to stay, I can go and-“

“Absolutely not.” he shook his head “It’s half 11 now and I’ve drunk more than enough…Jake and Lisa won’t mind.”

“You sure?”

“Course. I’ll go get call us a cab.”

When he came back Fliss was at the table gathering her purse and his jacket. They made their rounds, said good bye to their friends and Frank led his girl out into the starry sky hand in hand.

*****

All things considered, on the Sunday morning Frank woke fairly clear headed, which Fliss pointed out shouldn’t have happened with how much he had drunk. They had a lazy morning before they headed home to pick Mary up, who was full of beans about how Steve had taken her out playing mini-golf the previous afternoon. They stayed for dinner at Bill and Verity’s before they made their way home along with the 4-legged fur babies and it wasn’t long before all 3 of them crashed out, the exertion of the weekend catching up on them all.

Monday and Tuesday seemed to drag by for Frank, and there was a reason. On Wednesday they finally got to find out what Bean was. Their scan was in the afternoon and Mary once again wanted to come, especially as she knew she would find out whether it was gonna be a girl or a boy that joined their little family in roughly 19 weeks or so time. Once more she was ignored and packed off to school with a frown on her face.

Frank was like a coiled spring all morning. The guys at work teased him relentlessly about how he was bounding around the place like Tigger on cocaine but he didn’t care. He was beyond excited to find out whether they were going to have a son or daughter. At exactly 12 he finished work and headed home. Fliss was already waiting for him having changed and showered and chatting excitedly they hopped in his truck and headed to the hospital. They were early so went to grab a drink at the coffee shop- Fliss having been told to drink plenty of water as it would help with the scan, and then when they had 15 minutes to their appointment they headed up.

“Miss Gallagher, Mr Adler.” Dr Kent smiled at them as they walked in “Nice to see you again.”

They both greeted her and Fliss settled on the bed, getting herself comfortable as Frank slid into the chair by her side. After answering the questions the Doctor asked her about how she was feeling, whether she was worried about anything, all the time Frank trying to pay attention but his mind was on one thing and one thing only. Seeing his baby again.

And when that time finally came, his heart skipped a beat. On the 3D scan there was so much more detail to take in this time. He could make out the little nose, the ears, eyelashes…fucking eyelashes. A tiny hand curled by its face which twitched as their baby move slightly.

“It says here that you want to know what it is…” Doctor said, looking at them both “Is that still the case.”

“Yeah…” Frank said, at the same time Fliss spluttered.

“No, I mean yes… “

Frank frowned “Liss? I thought…” “Could you write it down for us?” Fliss cut him off, smiling at the doctor.

“Ahh you doing a gender reveal?” The woman nodded, and Frank’s frown grew deeper. They hadn’t discussed that.” Not a problem…”

The doctor looked at the screen and Frank glanced at Fliss questioningly but she softly shook her head at him and squeezed his hand, telling him silently to trust her. The Doctor smiled, and headed off to write the results down and a soon as she had left the room, Frank turned to Fliss

“What are you doing?”

“I just had a thought…” Fliss took a deep breath “that if we do it this way, you know get it written down to open later, then Mary can be there with us when we find out.”

And once again, just like that, her fucking thoughtfulness knocked him sideways. He blinked and shook his head, smiling as he brought his eyes back up to meet hers “You’re fucking amazing you know that?” Of course the only thing wrong with her plan was that they now had to wait another 3 hours for Mary to come home.

Frank collected her from the bus stop and as usual was greeted by the grumblings that she was perfectly capable of walking home across the little park on her own, to which he shot back his usual I don’t care response. She walked into the apartment with her usual swagger, tossing her bag over the back of the sofa before she wandered into the kitchen where Fliss was stood chopping up salad for dinner

“So.” she said, dramatically “You gonna tell me then or what?”

Frank looked at Fliss who smiled before he spoke “Actually, you’re gonna tell us.”

“What?” she looked at him

“You’re gonna tell us what it is.” he repeated.

“Like how?” she rolled her eyes “I wasn’t even there.”

“We got the Doctor to write it down.” Fliss explained, “And seal it in an envelope.” Mary’s eyes widened “You mean…you guys don’t know?” Frank shook his head “Fliss thought it would be nice for all 3 of us to find out together.”

She looked at him, then to Fliss, her blue eyes filling with tears a she ran to Frank, her arms circling his waist.

“Hey…” he chuckled, crouching down and looking her in the face, his hand brushing her hair back slightly as she sniffed and gave a watery laugh “We good?”

She nodded and smiled “Where is it? The envelope I mean.”

“On the coffee table.” he said, kissing her forehead.

“Can we do it now?”

“I hope so.” Frank said, looking up at Fliss “Been waiting all damned afternoon.”

“Oh hush.” Fliss replied as he stood up, Mary in his arms.

“You know you’re getting kinda big now Stack.” he grunted a little as he shifted her onto his hip.

“You’re still bigger.” she said as he dropped her down onto the floor in the living room. She looked at the envelope and when Fliss nodded at her she picked it up.

“You know…” she mused, looking at Frank “If I open this that technically means that I was the first person to know. Well, other than the doctor…but they don’t count.” Frank looked at Fliss as his arm slid round her waist. “Yeah..” he turned back to Mary “Pretty cool, huh?” She grinned at him and took a deep breath “Ok…here goes….”

Frank felt his heart suddenly become quicker in his chest as he watched Mary pull open the envelope and look at the small slip of paper inside. She read the words, looked at them both, her eyes shining.

“Wow…” she breathed out.

“You’re killing us Stack!” Frank spluttered “What the hell is it?”

“It’s a boy!”

There was a pause and Frank blinked. “What?” he breathed out and looked at Mary “Are you sure?”

“I can read, Frank?” she narrowed her eyes at him, handing him the piece of paper. With a shaking hand he took ait and looked down at the words the doctor had written on them. As he read them, “Congratulations, it’s a Boy!” they suddenly registered in his brain and he looked at Fliss who had tears in her eyes. His own eyes misted over and a huge grin spread across his face.

“Lissy, it’s a boy!”

She gave a laugh as his arms wrapped around her and he kissed the side of her head.

“Happy Sailor?” she asked.

“I can’t…wow!” he chuckled, sniffing slightly, unable to form any other words. He moved one of his arms and signalled for Mary to join them and she rushed forwards, her arms wrapping around his waist as he dropped his hand to her back, gently rubbing between her shoulder blades.

A boy. A little boy.

Although he truly would have been happy either way, as long as their baby was healthy, he’d secretly always hoped the colour would be blue. They had Mary already, and from a selfish point of view had wanted a boy to even the numbers out. Not to mention the fact he was already envisaging matching baseball caps, sneakers, sailing days, basketball, football…

He looked at Fliss who gave him a smile and his face split into an even wider grin and he leaned over to give her a kiss before his hand dropped to the side of her bump, gently skating the place where his son was growing.

***** Frank wanted to shout their news from the roof tops. But Fliss forbid him from telling anyone until they told the family first. As Evelyn would be here for the weekend they decided to have a BBQ on the Saturday evening, and share their news then. And Mary and Fliss came up with the perfect way to do it.

Evelyn arrived in town on the Friday afternoon and due to her new found ‘friendship’ (if you could call it that) with Fliss’ parents since that fateful thanksgiving in Boston, she was staying with them. Her first comment upon seeing them all was how much Fliss had bloomed since her last visit a few months ago. Fliss had grinned and commented that she felt like a hippo to which Evelyn had snorted and told her to stop being ridiculous. The 4 of them went for dinner that evening to the Italian in town that Mary liked and on the Saturday Bill dropped her at the stables to see Mary ride. Mary had now moved on from the cross poles to a foot high straight upright jump, and she was easily taking it all in her stride. Frank had long since given up trying to talk her out of it. She enjoyed it, and it was hard to deny she was pretty good at it too. Saturday afternoon they all went back to the apartment where Evelyn, Fliss and Mary whipped up some cupcake batter…something which floored Frank. He couldn’t remember his mother baking, ever. Once the cakes were cooked however, Evelyn was unceremoniously barred from the kitchen whilst Fliss and Mary put the final touches to their Gender Reveal plans. At one point Mary burst out of the kitchen telling Evelyn to look away, and as Frank looked up from where he and his mother had been glancing at a few realtor pages and properties in the local area, he could instantly see why. She had blue food colouring all over her face and hands.

Later that night Verity, Steve, Bill and Roberta joined them and after a few drinks Mary handed out the cupcakes.

“Now, you have to eat them at the same time.” she instructed “Because the colour in the middle will tell you if the baby is gonna be a boy or a girl.”

“Did you make these?” Steve looked at Fliss. She nodded.

“And no, there’s nothing special in them…” she told him and he smirked “Other than the buttercream.”

As everyone eagerly began to dig into their cakes, desperate to find out, Mary skipped over to where Frank and Fliss were stood at the side of the kitchen steps, standing in front Frank as his arm dropped looping around her chest, pulling her back towards him a little. “A boy?” Verity shrieked, the first to find her splodge of blue cream in the middle of her cake as she looked over at them all.

“Yeah!” Fliss smiled, Frank’s other arm tossed casually round her shoulder.

“God help ya’ll, a mini Frank!” Roberta quipped and he shot her a glare before the rest of the crowd of people erupted into cheers and laughter. There were a lot of hugs shared and then Mary stepped over to Bill and Steve, holding her hand out.

“Pay up, losers.”

“Yeah…Dad can you sub me?” Steve asked, “I left my wallet at home” “Course you did.” Bill grumbled as he reached into his pocket. Retrieving a twenty from his wallet he handed it to Mary.

“Erm…what are you doing?” Frank asked, having watched the exchanged.

“Last week when you were at the wedding we were talking about it and I bet them it was a boy.” Mary shrugged “I had a hunch” “And now she has twenty bucks.” Bill grumbled as Fliss gave a loud laugh.

“No she doesn’t.” Frank put his hands on his hips “Give it back.”

“No way.” she pouted “I earned that.” “You’re 9.” Frank shot back “You know it’s illegal for 9 year olds to gamble, Mary.”

“What you gonna do Frank?” Fliss asked as Mary folded the money and sticking it in her pocket “Call the feds?”

Bill and Steve both sniggered as Frank looked at Fliss before he shook his head and turned back to Mary.

“How exactly were you gonna pay if you lost?” he folded his arms. “I was planning on winning it back by betting on the name.” she shrugged.

“Double or quits.” Steve nodded in agreement.

“Stop encouraging her.” Frank pointed at him.

“Relax…” Frank heard Evelyn chuckle a little and he turned to face her, where she was sat at the outside table with Verity and Roberta “You’re in dad mode already.” “I’ve been in dad mode for the last 8 and a half years.” he shot back before he felt his eyes widen slightly.

“I know…” his mother gave him a soft smile. “Believe me.”

Fliss hand tightened around his for a second and he looked down at her, giving her a quick peck.

“I’m gonna get another beer.” he said, suddenly needing the head space. “You want anything?” “No.” Fliss smiled at him as he walked off.

Truth was he’d shocked himself a little. That was the first time he’d ever referred to his role with Mary as being a dad out loud to anyone but her or Fliss. Truth be told, he was a little worried about how she was going to react once Bean was born and how they were going to try to keep her feeling as included as they could, especially when he started talking and referring to him and Fliss as Mom and Dad, when Mary didn’t. He ran a hand over his face, opening the fridge. It was an unorthodox situation, but…well, he knew full well there were worse circumstances Mary could be in.

“She wouldn’t mind you know.” a voice jerked him from his thoughts and Frank spun to face his mother

“Who?” he frowned. “Diane.” she reached past him for the bottle of wine in the fridge “Fliss told me that’s why you get so pissy about people referring to you as Mary’s father.” “I’m not pissy about it, I’m just not her father.”

“You are in every other way bar legally being labelled as so, Frank.” Evelyn poured herself a drink “And moreover, Diane’s memory isn’t going to suddenly fade away if you were.”

“What are you-“

She levelled him with a look and simply handed him the bottle back before she picked up her glass and headed off leaving him pondering her words. With a shake of his head, deciding that was a discussion for another day, he grabbed another bottle of beer and headed back outside.

“Hey Frank!” Roberta’s shout stopped him in his tracks as stood at the top of the steps and looked over at her. “You gonna cook anything on this BBQ or what? Been waiting so damned long my clothes are goin outta fashion.” “That’s assuming they were in fashion in the first place!” Mary grinned, skipping past Frank as he walked onto the lawn, tossing a ball for Fred as he scooted off after it, Thor following.

At that Steve snorted. Roberta looked at him

“Oh hark on the British boy in board shorts.”

Steve’s response was a cheeky wink “I have been reliably informed you like men in board shorts Roberta. Do I not meet your standards?” he gave a little twirl, his arms held out to his side, a grin on his face. “I’ve seen worse.” she mused, causing Steve and Bill to tip their heads back in almost identical roars of laugher. “You ever fancy yourself a sugar momma you know where to come lookin’ honey.”

“You know, if we’re discussing questionable clothing choices…” Fliss looked up, her eyes locking onto Frank’s before she glanced at Mary “I have something to say about someone’s shirts.”

Mary let out a lout hoot of laughter as did Roberta and Frank looked at Fliss as she grinned.

With a shake of his head and a soft snort of laughter as he looked around at his family, he headed to the BBQ.

**** Chapter 7

#riding on #frank adler #frank adler x ofc #frank adler x original female character #gifted #gifted fan fic #chris evans #chris evans characters

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platypus-mcslothman · 3 years ago

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‘Well, at least we’re not America’ is a common phrase said by most people when political/racism issues or crises occur in UK. A phrase I am coming to discover is telling of how well the propaganda machines in our country work. The UK is wayyy more dysfunctional than America and allow me to detail but the surface level of known issues in our political sphere.

1. U.K. media ecosystem is… corrupt. Seriously, the older I get the more realise how not too dissimilar our media is to North Korea’s, except our media doesn’t work for the state primarily and will turn on it if it benefits them. You can look at how our media recently attacked Boris Johnson and then started pushing out puff pieces when he won a landslide in our local election for perfect proof

We’ve had phone hacking scandals, invasions of privacy, been accused of Nazi like language by the UN, have a state owned media outlet with political leaders heading it, anti-vaccine and now anti-lockdown narratives being pushed forward, think tanks owned by prominent right wing politicians and advisors being treated as unbiased think tanks, and more.

Our media landscape is predominately owned by 5 people. Rupert Murdoch (owner of Fox News) being one of the most prominent and also the closest to government.

The media in the UK is basically an attack dog for politics. It’s often been said no government will ever get into power without Rupert Murdoch on side.

It gets significantly worse when you begin to discover many prominent journalists are friends, god parents, spouses, and family members to our political elite. Heck, Boris Johnson (our Prime Minister) was originally a journalist for the spectator and telegraph (and an appalling one at that).

2. our police are well… corrupt. They’ve been involved in murdering civilians, brutally killing protestors and lying about killing them, feeding lies to the press about officers being hurt by protestors, assaulting journalists, and are involved in numerous conspiracies, and coincidentally were the only public service that didn’t receive defunding during and after thatcher’s era.

The most recent conspiracy involves the media too. A private detective called Daniel Morgan was suspect to have been murdered by two police officers with axes, who were originally investigating the crime, after he started investigating corruption in the police force. This case happened in the 90s and is now resurging after renewed interest. Strangely enough, the case Morgan was investigating later became known as the Phone Hacking scandal in the early 2000s.

Essentially the phone hacking scandal was the reveal that newspapers were hacking phones, wiretapping houses, and paying or blackmailing police officers to give them information about criminal cases. During this scandal it was also revealed newspapers were hiring PIs. More specifically the firm that Morgan worked for and even more specifically the suspected murderers who were fired from the police forces and were hired by Morgan’s old PI firm. You couldn’t make this up.

3. this is gonna be a running theme, but our politicians… corrupt. In a slew of scandals over decades, our politicians have been revealed to spend their work expenses on personal expenses (one politician bought a draw bridge for their manor, and many used them to buy second homes in London before selling them off at a profit during a housing crises), they accept other ‘jobs’ for private businesses (essentially a politician is payed thousands for a couple hours in an ‘advisory’ position), they’ve used tax havens (David Cameron, one of our prior PMs, is the most prominent example), they’ve lobbied after leaving their post (essentially they’re paid a lot of money to push for legislation changes that will profit a company which is quite easy to do when you have political connections, yet again David Cameron is a prominent example), and in the most recent disgusting display I present to you: the ‘my little crony’ model. A model that visually shows you the corruption in our pandemic expenditure.

https://www.sophie-e-hill.com/post/my-little-crony/

During the pandemic, our government bypassed competition laws to directly award contracts for PPE (Personal Protective Equipment), and test and trace. 25% of these contracts at minimum have since been deemed as questionable. They were awarded to businesses owned by politicians, politician’s family members, neighbours, friends, and political donors. Dyson was even revealed to have directly messaged Boris Johnson to change how taxes work so he could provide profitable ventilators when we were desperately short (which is worse when you consider Dyson didn’t deliver a single ventilator despite these changes). That’s not even an isolated story. There is a backlog of stories of strange and not suited businesses not providing PPE, not providing useable PPE, and being payed to make PPE at inflated costs. We’ve had sweet wrapper makers, jewellers, pubs, and a finance company that was only set up weeks before the contract being given these essential jobs in making and delivering PPE. The amount of money spent on these contracts is not yet fully known because documentation hasn’t been published fully, which is unlawful according to our Supreme Court’s findings.

In the pandemic we spent 37 billion on our test and trace app. The app was a failure and still is. It doesn’t contact people, a lot of data was lost because they were using an outdated Excel program to store data (which it didn’t store because Excel is not designed for that amount of data and severely outdated), and a lot people haven’t downloaded it because of trust issues caused by poor communication and initially designing the app to store data in a centralised location instead of in a means where the data can’t be accessed at a later date (as almost every other country did for trust reasons).

Now, 37 billion pounds is a very abstract number. Many don’t fully understand how much money that really is. Well, it could nationalise our entire electric grid in the UK. It’s 10% of the amount needed to end world hunger. It could end our housing crisis in the UK. and it was spent on an app that doesn’t work! Not to mention, the leader of test and trace is now being rumoured to be appointed the head of our national health service…

Heck, our PM was paid by one of his political donors to refurbish his temporary flat in Number 10 (our version of the White House). He spent £200,000 whilst he claimed our entire country didn’t have enough money to feed poor children during the pandemic. And even after he lost two fights with a footballer over the issue (yes, you heard that right), our government contracted a private company that provided inadequate amounts of weekly food. Below isn’t even the worst example.

(Note this a contrast between the amount you could actually buy with money allocated by the government and the amount given by the private companies hired by the government. They took may as well have literally have took candy from a baby.)

Summary: the U.K. is worse than the US exactly because the people of our nation and kingdom don’t see the ridiculousness and corruption that takes place daily and historically.

We’ve had governments spying on trade unions and activists, we’ve had kids being brutalised by police officers because they attended or were thought to have attended a protest, we have a bill that now is trying to ban protest, we have a media ecosystem so disgustingly inadequate they don’t hold government to account, and we have politicians who claim they could live off minuscule amounts provided by the state to the poor and disabled whilst gourging on state paid meals at fancy restaurants where they spend more than that minuscule amount in a couple hours.

There’s so much wrong with my nation and kingdom, I honestly don’t have enough words nor the ability to accurately articulate how disgustingly corrupt it is. We are not the United Kingdom, we are the Corrupt Kingdom. I could go on and fucking on about how unjust, untruthful, and immoral my nation is. I don’t like that, but I also am not going to be patriotic about a nation that kills the poor and disabled by not providing support, allowing a virus to ravage our society by not putting the needs many before the needs of the few, and who claims we can’t spend money on society whilst spending lucrative amounts on idiotic selfish things.

Further reading/references:

youtube

(this is my blog, I haven’t posted here in a while)

#u.k. politics #u.k. government #sorry had to get that of my system #sloth rants about politics #my country is a joke #wait until you hear about the key advisor who explained government using the Spider-Man meme #tw: politics #tw: police mention #politics #Youtube

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bates--boy · 3 years ago

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Adie was home, Adie was home, Adie was home! And the first place she picked to hang out at once she settled in was the studio. Tommy couldn’t understand the fanfare of it all -- the little decorations and catering, the formal casual attire, setting up a playlist of her favorite songs and setting out a box of her favorite movies and games -- but who was he to rain on his crew’s parade? And Adie did sound like a pretty cool kid, from the way Naseem talked about her and what Tommy could hear from the conversations when Naseem or Mike had their phones on speaker. He was happy to volunteer as the mocktail mixer at the makeshift bar on the folding table, refilling Pakiza’s plastic martini shot glass with a lemon lime soda and a green grape.

For all this much ado about the teen’s return that was on the levels of a rave, the get-together ended up being more low-key. In-between cooing about how chunky Hasan’s gotten and how chubby and round his cheeks are, Adie told them about her pre-university immersion, earning credits and having roommates.

“I even got to be a R.A. for a day!” Adie exclaimed as she tugged her necklace out of Hasan’s mouth and wiped it on her shirt.

Mike narrowed his eyes. “What? How’d you get to do that? You’re just a kid.”

Adie tucked the necklace into her shirt and gave Hasan an apple slice to gnaw on. “The actual R.A. was drunk or high or something, so she asked her friends to ‘train’ me and let me shadow them.” She shrugged it off, even as her brother, Ashira, and Mike exchanged glances while Adel and Tarsha snickered.

“...Your R.A. was drunk?” Ashira asked, leaning forward in her seat. “Does Mama know?”

“No, and she doesn’t need to know,” Adie said.

“Like hell, she doesn’t need to know!” Naseem said, reaching into his pocket for his phone. “What was her name? Which hall were you staying in?”

Adie scoffed. “Chill, y’all, okay? I’m obviously fine. ‘Sides, I might as well get used to seeing that if I’m gonna go to parties.”

“Not while you’re studying, you ain’t!”

“Riiiiight, because for the whole three years I’m there, I can’t go to one party.”

“Right!”

Adie giggled. “Not one? At all?”

Naseem raised his brow. “...Did I stutter?”

“Nah, but you’re sounding a little goofy right now.” Adie shook her head and sighed. “Besides, that’s not even the worst part of it.”

Mike lowered his drink. “It can get worse than a negligent adult in charge of children?”

“Yeah.” Adie leaned back into the couch and played with a lock of Hasan’s coils, watching it bounce back. “Since she was drunk, we didn’t have enough adults to supervise the pre-uni party, so we had to cancel it. Which sucked because I had bought this really cute dress while there, and I even got Mr. Noah to promise me a dance!”

Naseem sat his phone on his knee to rub his temples. “Oh, my god, I wish you’d stop being down for that expat...”

Mike looked underneath his lashes at Ashira, who stared pointedly at first Naseem, then at Peter, who sat curled up in the egg chair and the notebook opened in his lap. He felt her eyes and looked up to meet them, smiling awkwardly at her as he wondered why she was staring at him. He was sure that Adie’s... ew, Anglophilia didn’t extend to expats who’ve done everything, right down to changing their accent, to detach themselves from the British crown.

Ashira brushed a lock of hair back and turned back to Adie. “Naseem does have a point, sweetheart. You should really stop fixating on older men. And England. It’s becoming an unhealthy and weird obsession.”

“Really,” Peter grumbled with a nod. “Trust me, Adie, whatever ideas you have about England is fake. It’s not a magical or whimsical land of fairytales and charming gentlemen who are looking to sweep you off your feet. It's just a tiny island that gets a lot of rain. Oh, and Boris Johnson and Piers Morgan. Eugh."

Peter didn't catch the disappointed and embarrassed pout on Adie's face as he had his eyes focused on his notebook.

"...I mean," Adie mumbled, her cheeks coloring, her years of cultural admiration shat on. "It's not just because he was from England. Mr. Noah said he was going to teach me to waltz."

Peter snorted, scratching a word out on the page and writing a better one above it. "That all? Shit, then I could teach you any day."

It was supposed to be a derisive jab; his attention divided, Peter thought it came out how he intended it to: dismissive and snarky, because a dance wasn't worth fawning over some dude or country -- a country that the form of dance hadn't even originated from! If Adie was looking to be swept around in a large ball gown, she could head to any class or event for that, because the waltz (so boring, so predictable and stiff and so much of a waste of his childhood summers) was not that special.

Except...

"...You mean it? You'll waltz with me?"

Except Peter looked up from his notebook and had almost all eyes, even Pakiza but especially Adie, boring into him expectantly. Some surprised, but mostly amused.

"Uh... I... I didn't say--"

"Awww, c'mon man!" Naseem threw a hand up. "Don't dangle it in front of my sister like that! Dance with her!"

"Nazz, you were just bitching about older Brits dancing with her."

"Yeah, but I don't like Noah," Naseem said about a man that Ashira would have been quick to point out her husband had met only twice, if not for her giggling behind her hand. "I trust you. Dance with my sister, dude!"

Peter pinched the bridge of his nose. "Guys I don't-- hey!"

His crew started booing him and throwing raisins and bits of bread at him. Even Hasan, who wanted to join in on the fun, flung what was left of his apple piece in Peter's direction and was off by a foot and forty degrees.

"Agh!" Peter ducked and covered his arms over his head as the booing morphed into chants of Dance with her! Dance with her! "Alright, okay! Okay!"

He stumbled to his feet, brushing food off his body. "I'll dance with our guest of honor."

And the studio filled with cheers and whistles and clapping, and Tommy saying within the applause, "Get out of your funky mood, my guy", which Peter chose to ignore as he went over to Adie. Adie handed the baby to Ashira, anticipation glowing all over her face despite her trying to keep a composed face.

Okay, Peter will admit that he felt like an ass at that moment, standing above Adie as she radiated absolute glee, for trying to burst her Anglophilic bubble. Not that he was wrong about England or the waltz, but he wondered when he had become such a dream killer? And for something so benign? Curse Peter's heart for softening at Adie's chocolate, doe eyes and her smile cracking wider as the eagerness became too much. He saw Mike from the corner of his eye fiddling with his phone; moments later, music started to billow out from the speakers.

Peter imagined that he looked far from the princely charming Brit in Adie's fantasy, being that he had a long ponytail, industrial ear piercings, and a depressingly black oversized hoodie over skinny jeans. Still, he cleared his throat, folded an arm behind his back, and held out his palm.

"Miss Adizue," Peter said, slipping easily back into his natural accent. "Will you do me the honor of having this dance with me?"

Adie slipped her hand into his and stifled a giggle. "I would love to."

Holding her hand high, Peter led her to the open floor space of the studio. He placed her hand on his shoulder, placed his just above the small of her back, and swallowed whatever sense of long suffering down as he counted off the music. "Alright, Adie, the basic is following my lead, okay? I step forward with my left foot and you step back with your right, and..."

Wow, she was a natural. She was a little stiff moving, misstepped a couple times (and stepped on Peter's toe, making him glad he went for a pair of old-ish boots) and Peter had to remind her not to look down at her feet, but she was picking it up quickly. He did feel bad that she didn't get to wear her cute dress and that he didn't dress up even more appropriately for this. Her laugh was dream-like and full of joy, growing past the shyness until she was unabashedly throwing her head back.

The song ended, and Peter bowed to Adie's sweater curtsy.

"Uncle Peter, I wanna princess dance next!"

Adie stepped just in time for Pakiza to launch herself at Peter's legs, hugging one of them and looking up at him in that cute way she knew Peter couldn't resist. She even looked like a little princess in her pink plaid jumper and glittery party tiara. Curse these beautiful children.

Peter waited until Pakiza unlatched herself from Peter's leg to bow and hold out his hand. "May I have this dance, Miss Pakiza?"

Pakiza placed her hand into Peter's. "Yes, please!"

Peter had his new dance partner stand on his feet, once again glad that he had went with the boots. Still, he instructed her on how to step and where, when to spin, when to pause, so that when the time came for her to dance on the floor, she'd be sort of ready. Although, he was sure she was going to forget it as soon as her parents tucked her in for bed. Four-year-olds are predictable like that.

Pakiza skipped away to Mike to get him to dance with her. Why not? Tarsha and Adel were on the floor, too, and Tommy stepped and danced about with Hasan squealing in his arms. Because Peter was on a roll, he also skipped away, snickering at the surprise on Ashira's face as he landed in a bow in front of her with his hand out.

Before he got to ask the question, Ashira held her palm out and shook her head. "I'm good."

Peter, feeling a little embarrassed but not wholly put off, was about to turn back to Adie to see if she wanted another go, when behind him Naseem spoke up.

"I'll have a dance with you."

Peter turned and looked over his shoulder. Naseem was already rising from his chair, straightening his clothes and tilting his chin up. "... You're... Serious?"

"Yeah!" Naseem snorted. "What, two men can't waltz?"

"I mean, I think so. I just...." He shrugged, gesturing for words. "You know, never known any who had."

"If that's true, then we'll be the first pair." Naseem quirked a brow, still waiting.

"...R-right!" Peter turned to Naseem, barely noticing the sour tension on Ashira's face, and bowed with his hand out. "May I have this dance, Mr. Naseem?"

"It'll be my pleasure," Naseem replied, taking Peter's hand, "Mr. Peter."

The two moved around the table to get to the designated dance floor, getting into position. Peter looked into Naseem's eyes and said, "Alright, we'll count off. When I step forward, you--"

"Actually, you know what?" Naseem cut in. "I want to lead."

Peter wasn't opposed to the ideas, but he still had to swallow a gasp as Naseem's hand slid down from his shoulder to his hip, nowhere near the proper placement. Naseem's fingers hitched Peter's hoodie up, not enough to be noticeable by anyone except the man who had warm fingers pressing onto his bare skin. Peter should say something to correct this.

"Alright, how do I lead?"

"Ah... Right! Left! I mean--"" he broke one of the rules and let his eyes fall to their feet. "You step forward with your left foot, and guide me back..."

Peter was too nervous teaching this way. How many dance teachers taught from the follower's position? Sure, there are probably hundreds of instances of waltz being taught like this, but did they have a leader breaking decorum while swinging them around to the music? Being held a little too close for proper stepping? A hand placed on the wrong place and accidentally inching higher and higher within their top? The other hand squeezing around theirs, the thumbs brushing against each other?

"You're, wow, you're doing great," Peter said, because even if the dance felt off, he had to still be encouraging to his student."

"Thanks, Peter," Naseem said. "You know, I think this is the first time I ever felt like Prince Charming."

Peter couldn't help but smile dryly, glad for an opportunity for some teasing. "Oh, so you're Prince Charming now, huh? Why, because you're technically sweeping me off my feet?"

Naseem shrugged a shoulder. "Maybe."

Peter snorted. "Hmph, too I didn't get to wear my Cinderella cosplay. We could've had the whole experience! Pumpkin coach, mice turning into horses--"

"Even a kiss at midnight, right?"

Peter stared up, wide-eyed and silent, his steps going automatic as his mind seemed to have frozen. He was, once again, hypersensitive to Naseem's fingers that he realized hadn't move much throughout this number. He was too aware of their fingers locked in their raised hands. He lowered his gaze to Naseem's mouth, waiting for that too cool, too easy grin to widen, and for Naseem to erupt in laughter.

"...They didn't actually kiss at midnight," Peter said in a voice too hoarse even in his own ears, his eyes flickering back up.

And thank God, Naseem did throw his head back and howl with laughter. Peter followed along, first strained and uneasy, then matching Naseem's carefree sound.

"Yeah," Peter chuckled, "That would be a little too much effort for cosplay."

"Right?" Naseem said. Then, more quietly, so easily that Peter wasn't sure he had heard him correctly, he added, "Like we'd need all of that extra stuff."

Peter wished he had asked Naseem what the hell did that mean, but his throat had dried before Naseem pulled away to try to convince Ashira to join in the fun.

#The MizFists #life thus far ( story )#droid noodles ( writing )

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amphtaminedreams · 4 years ago

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COVID-19, Negligent Manslaughter, and a Timeline of Tory Indifference

“I feel sorry for Boris Johnson. He is doing the best he can in the situation and I don’t think anybody else could have done a better job.”

[exhibit A: a gem somebody that I’m Facebook friends with reposted earlier]

It’s a sentiment that I cannot quite wrap my head around. I sit here hopeless and furious and trying to hold back tears because it’s been almost a year since England first went into lockdown and yet here we are, almost 100,000 dead, in an even worse position than we were before whilst other countries begin to slowly return to normality. It is clear to me who is to blame for this, however there are a large proportion of people who don’t want to “politicise” the actions of the PRIME MINISTER with regards to his approach towards handling a virus sweeping the country he GOVERNS.

Typically, these kind of posts making the rounds on social media will be accompanied by some kind of photo of Boris Johnson looking somber as if to suggest that the way things have played out were beyond his control and that he is some kind of broken man beleaguered by the suffering he has, despite good intentions, inadvertently caused.

This one in particular of Johnson with his head in his hands is a staple. In reality, this is a photo taken back in 2018 whilst he was receiving flack from party members for comparing Theresa May to a suicide bomber (for her handling of Brexit, ironically) as well as from the papers due to his rumoured (now also proven, in a completely non-surprising turn of events, to be true) affair with his former aide, Carrie Symonds.

So let’s shut this narrative-where we should feel for Boris because he’s doing his best, and apparently a better job than anybody else could’ve done in his situation- down right here. In a supposedly developed country with one of the world’s largest economies, if we’re talking by proportion, our COVID-19 death toll is up there with the worst of them. It seems that every other state figurehead (bar a small handful), and I mean almost every single one of them, is doing a better job. People love to throw figures out there about how densely populated we are to combat damning statistics as if we haven’t got just as many factors playing to our advantage, as if it’s unfair to compare our response to Germany’s or Japan’s or Singapore’s (both of which are far more densely populated) or New Zealand’s or Vietnam’s, but we are an ISLAND with world-leading technology and infrastructure and healthcare equipment and professionals and a relatively high standard of living. In what world is almost 70,000 dead in a country with abundant time and means to prepare a response reflective of said country’s leaders doing a good job?

Apparently we’re supposed to believe that Johnson feels some sense of moral responsibility for this astronomical failure. A man who refuses to acknowledge the multiple children he has fathered outside of his marriages and who has had repeatedly engaged in affairs and one-night stands throughout said marriages. A man who continued to cheat whilst his most recent wife was receiving treatment for cervical cancer, for fuck’s sake. Yep, a real stand-up guy.

So where does this idea that Johnson must feel remorseful for this catastrophe come from? We haven’t seen a second of remorse or a hint of accountability for the lives lost from him nor any members of his cabinet. That much is really no surprise; I have this hypothesis, and it’s not a stretch, that these people do not have an ounce of empathy in their bodies. These ridiculously privileged, privately-educated individuals who have had everything handed to them their entire lives simply cannot put themselves in the shoes of the average working person and that is the problem. Unable to recognise that what distinguishes them from most others is little more than the luck of being born into wealth and the abundance of recourses and connections that has entailed throughout their lives, they see us as beneath them-as less intelligent, less driven, and thus less deserving of the status and respect they enjoy. They see us as a bunch of whining, unmotivated idiots who do not recognise the chokehold they have over our media nor the fact that everything they do is a desperate grab to keep money and power within the hands of a select group of people, an exclusive members club from which most of us are barred (just take a simple Google search and watch Jacob Rees-Mogg’s opinion of the Grenfell victims or the buried Johnson speech where he talks about how inequality is essential). They know that we will squabble amongst ourselves about who is to blame rather than wising up to the truth which is that every decision they make is fuelled by cronyism and the inability to make and follow through with difficult choices, the pandemic being no exception. The supposedly self-made elite see the life of the average working class person as having far less value than their own, and their parties actions over the last 10 years have made that very clear.

It was in December 2019 that the first case of COVID-19 was declared to the World Health Organisation and on March the 11th that they announced they considered it as a pandemic. In Wuhan, people were dying of pneumonia in their clusters. And what was Boris Johnson doing in this time? Well for starters, here in the UK we didn’t even have a pandemic committee-Johnson had scrapped it six months before. If years of benefits cuts and defunding of the NHS in favour of funding nuclear weapon programs, keeping British troops on other people’s lands, and tax breaks for the mega corporations that donate to their party didn’t convince you that the Conservatives have little regard for human life, them getting rid of this committee-whilst a pandemic has been declared year after year as the greatest threat to mankind-should have been the first sign of trouble. As if that wasn’t enough, he also skipped five of the COBRA (meetings are made up of a cross-departmental committee put together to respond to national emergencies and PMs routinely attend those pertaining to crises on the scale of COVID-19) meetings addressing the situation. Whilst other countries were closing their borders and stocking up on PPE, Johnson and his ministers were selling PPE abroad and simply telling people to wash their hands to the length of the tune of happy birthday. Their only policy was one of “herd immunity”, which was in fact not a policy but just an abandonment of their party’s public duty disguised as one, intentionally obfuscated with pseudoscientific jargon.

Even thinking the absolute worst of politicians you would hope that when it came to the point where the UK’s non-response to COVID-19 was becoming an international disgrace, Johnson and his ministers would take proper protective measures if only to save face. But when they eventually seemed to do so, it became clear that the priority was not the safety of the ordinary people affected by the virus. Outsourcing their test and traces system to companies such as Serco, Sitel, Deloitte and G4S rather than public health services, Conservative ministers could not resist attempting to line the pockets of their friends and benefactors in the process. According to the Guardian, instead of reaching out to the experts or using publicly funded services to handle COVID containment measures, the Conservative party has awarded a disgusting £1.5 BILLION WORTH of contracts to businesses with explicit connections to its MPs and donors, the majority of which lack any relative experience of the tasks they’ve been trusted to carry out. Unsurprisingly, the National Audit office found that when awarding contracts relating to the production of COVID-19 protection measures and treatment needs, there was a “high-priority lane” for suppliers referred by senior politicians and officials; companies with a political referral were 10 times more likely to end up winning a government contract than those without. On top of this, it is not hard to draw a link between the late initiation of lockdown measures and preemptive openings of pubs and restaurants against scientific advice to the interests of frequent donors such as Wetherspoons owner Tim Martin. Even if one chooses to ignore the blatantly obvious correlation between the owners of the businesses whose profits were prioritised over safety concerns and the number of those owners who donate to the Conservatives, party officials at the very least were reluctant to follow the lead of many other countries in financing furlough schemes themselves and instead avoided this responsibility by using loose lockdown measures to leave it down to the discretion of small business owners, who couldn’t themselves afford to furlough staff, whether or not to stay open.

Time and time again, as the government flounder and fuck about, favouring personal desires to keep their powerful, high-paying jobs and to satisfy the corporate allies who make this possible, blame has been shifted from the public to care homes to NHS workers and back again whilst we, the public, make the biggest sacrifices of all under the illusion that we were being guided out of this pandemic rather than lied to and thrown under the bus. Whilst the elite continue to pick and choose what rules apply to them, it’s students and the elderly and the vulnerable paying the fines and scrabbling to afford basic living costs and hoping that they don’t lose someone dear to them.

Don’t get me wrong, a large proportion of the public have contributed to the spread too with their selfishness and entitlement and the arrogance it takes to develop a sudden refusal to acknowledge basic science from experts who have studied in the field their whole lives so that they can justify their need to go to the pub (speaking of, it’s absolutely HILARIOUS how many “mental health advocates” are suddenly coming out of the woodworks on football avi Twitter after they’ve spent years calling people on mental health Twitter attention seekers). And don't get me wrong, there were inevitably going to be casualties of this pandemic. But it didn't have to spread to this many people, and there didn’t have to be so many deaths due to a lack of preparation, and this wouldn’t have been the case if it weren’t for the inherent apathy of the Conservative party towards the lives of people of lesser status than them, the reluctance to put those lives before party interests. I wish I felt like there was an end in sight, I wish there was some positive takeaway from all of this, but even now, we continue to see corners being cut with the vaccine lauded as our saving grace and anti-maskers gathering outside hospitals to chant about how “oppressive” it is to be urged to wear a bit of cloth over their faces for the short periods of time in which they leave their houses and all I can think of is the selfishness that runs like poison through our country. It makes me sick and leaves me to question desperately where we go from here. I don’t like unanswered questions, I don’t like feeling politically directionless, and I don’t like the growing fear I have about the state of the world which seems to intensify every single day. In the UK at least, it’s starting to feel like nothing will ever change-we’re told we live in a democracy and yet mainstream media is owned by the people whose interest is to keep their Conservative friends in power. The stronghold they have over print media in particular allows them to continually get away with smearing and defaming every person who comes along and seems to want to actually help ordinary people, without being challenged, to the point where the only kind of “opposition” we’re left with promises nothing but a big boss approved tactical reshuffling of the status quo (which they call “electability”); it doesn’t feel like democracy when the majority of the country are being fed misleading information and convinced against voting in their best interests.

This is the result of that. The state we find ourselves in is the inevitable result of being manipulated into helping the elite build their protective wall whilst the rest of us scrabble to get in and step on each others heads along the way, the people inside shouting over that it’s those even more vulnerable than ourselves that are taking our places. Outside the wall, the earth is falling from beneath our feet, and instead of throwing over the ropes to help us out, the people inside are stockpiling them so they can secure their firm place above ground and then later flog the rest. How many more people have to die before we reach some kind of widespread realisation of that? Where do we go from here and what do we do? Well for one, we can stop spreading those god-fucking-awful textposts on Facebook and get our heads out of our arses. Wear our masks over and wear them over our fucking noses. Have some fucking consideration for others. Don’t wait til an issue affects you personally to give a fuck about it. AND START HOLDING THE FUCKING PRIME MINISTER AND HIS MINISTERS AND HIS ENTIRE PARTY AS WELL AS THE OPPOSITION MPS THAT HAVE SAT BY THE SIDELINES AND ALLOWED THIS TO GO ON WITHOUT PROTEST ACCOUNTABLE. That would be a good start.

I’m so tired. Things didn’t need to be this way, and yet because of the selfishness of the few, thousands upon thousands are dead. It’s not about “throwing around blame”, it’s not about “throwing around” anything, it’s about expecting a leader to do his best to protect lives. If that is “throwing blame”, let’s get things clear, I have no issue with hurtling it torpedo style at those who handed out a death sentence to so many in this country rather than do anything that might compromise their own privilege. Honestly, pass me the shovel after and I’ll happily bury the wreckage in the ground. Who wants to join?:-)

#rant #politics #anti capitalism #anticapitalist #covid-19 #covid #england #labour #socialism #fuck the tories #fuck the torys #fuck boris #rant post

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what-is-your-plan-today · 4 years ago

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Riding On Ch 6: It’s A Nice Day For A White Wedding

Pairing: Frank Adler x Fliss Gallagher

A/N: Just so you know, I couldn’t decide whether to give them a boy or a girl…so I literally wrote both down on a piece of paper and picked. Also, I have to thank @southerngrace here for her idea on just how to reveal the news to Mary and their Family. Chapter Song: It’s All About You by Mc Fly (this one has ALWAYS screamed Friss at me, I’m not afraid to say it!)

Riding On Masterlist // WIYPT Masterlist

And I would answer all your wishes, if you asked me to. But if you deny me one of your kisses, don’t know what I’d do. So hold me close and say three words like you used to do. Dancing on the kitchen tiles, yes you make my life worthwhile, so I told you with a smile, it’s all about you.

"It was a nice meal." Bonnie smiled.

"Yeah, really thoughtful of them to have the non-alcoholic wine available" Fliss smiled. “Felt nice to taste something that made me feel like an adult again.”

"He hasn't taken his eyes off you all day." Bonnie smiled as Fliss turned back to her. "It's cute"

Bonnie grinned. "Did he tell you what he actually said to the girl?"

"I don't think he remembers" Fliss shook her head.

"Si does. Apparently he said, and I quote 'why the fuck would I want a Big Mac when I got a prime fillet steak waiting for me at home?’ “

Fliss blinked, and then let out a huge snort of laughter which attracted the attention of a few people around them.

"How fucking rude"

"She deserved it by refusing to back off the first time. Ho." Bonnie shrugged.

"I don't mean that I mean him likening me to a piece of meat. Mind you, quite apt really..." she shrugged

"How so?"

Bonnie sniggered "Maybe you're giving off some kind of sex pheromone because you’re pregnant."

"I know you're joking but..." Fliss shrugged "He’s always had a high sex drive but since I started really showing he has gotten so much worse. I think he has some kind of breeding kink."

"Must be so hard being you..." Bonnie said sarcastically "Nice man that buys you flowers and can't keep his hands off you...”

"He is the one finding it hard not me" Fliss grinned and at that Bonnie tipped her head back laughing.

He wanted her, now.

“Pretty sure you ain’t supposed to have that…” Bonnie chastised, her eyes flicking back to Fliss as she took the bottle back.

“One mouthful won’t hurt.” Fliss replied, her shoulders rising in a shrug. “I always take a swig of Frank’s before I hand it to him…just don’t tell him.”

“Too late.” he leaned down and said in her ear, causing her to shriek slightly and jump as his hands settled on her hips, beard tickling her cheek and neck.

“Fuck! Fran, what you trying to do, send me into early labour?” she tilted her head to look over her shoulder at him before she glared at Bonnie “You could have warned me.”

Bonnie shrugged and grinned as she walked off. Fliss wrinkled her nose and turned in Frank’s arms, looking up at him sheepishly

“That was naughty.” he teased and she grinned a little.

“It was one mouthful…”

“I’m only teasing.” he smiled, dropping his mouth to hers in a sweet kiss and she sighed. He tasted of scotch and the cheesecake that they’d had for desert. “I told you before, one glass or one bottle won’t hurt if you want one.” “No, I don’t.” she shrugged “Just wanted a little taste that’s all.”

“Yeah well, now I want a taste of something.” “What are you talking about?”

“I want you.” he said, his mouth by her ear and he felt her still slightly, her breath hitching and he grinned, planting a soft kiss to the crook of her shoulder. He knew the effect those words had on her, being wanted as opposed to needed, it was a subtle difference, but one he knew meant something to her, and him for that matter.

“What, now?” she looked at him as he pulled away, glancing around the room before he looked back down at her.

“Right now.” he nodded.

“You’re serious.”

“Deadly.” he looked at her, “What’s the Ladies bathroom like?”

“You wanna do me in the ladies?” she deadpanned as he tugged her hand and pulled her away from the crowded foyer towards the bathroom.

“Yup.” he said, checking around once more to see if anyone was watching, before he opened the door and nudged her back gently with his hand so she entered the room in front of him.

“Wow, romantic, Frank.” Fliss said sarcastically as she arched an eyebrow, turning to face him.

“I’m being spontaneous….” he said, backing into the cubicle and pulling her with him, reaching round to lock the stall door.

“There’s nothing spontaneous about you wanting to jump my bones” she looked up at him as her purse clattered to the floor, “You’re constantly after a bit at the moment.”