#broon stick

[iguessitsjustme]

MAME but it's done by Moonie and Broon

Had the best time at the Ren Faire with @heretherebedork yesterday and we watched Moonie and Broon and first of all, that entire show was hilarious. But also it felt like MAME should have been in the audience taking notes for her shows because it was THAT wild. Anyway, I took notes for her:

"Get on your knees and stick out your tongue. Trust me."

"Rolley no bangy splashy."

Balls in mouth

Forehead licks. And then the next guy licks him.

Balls at jury duty.

"By the way, it's gonna hurt like hell."

"It's good to be a lady" (uke's best friend says about the uke)

One of them eats fire (my vote is that it's the seme eating fire for god knows what reason)

"What if we teamed up and did a double tongue transfer?"

"I come to you with a flaming tongue."

Known around the world as "hey you in the bushes."

@heretherebedork I feel like there was more but I didn't manage to write them all down so I don't remember. I'm sure there's something about juggling.

[scotianostra]

On November 1st 1947 Gordon Brown was born.

Naw no the erse, that was PM- the ither yin, Gordon Broon frae Troon the Scottish Rugby legend also known as the baby-faced assassin.

Brown was born in 1947 in Troon, the son of former Clyde and Scotland goalkeeper Jock Brown, he had also been a golfer playing off a scratch handicap, he had appeared in the Scottish Open at Royal Troon alongside golfing greats such as Arnold Palmer. Gordon's big brother Peter also played for and Captained Scotland to 3 victories over England scoring 67 international points making him our all time highest scoring rugby forward.

Despite his fearsome build, 6ft 5ins and 16 stone, Brown was a genial and gentle giant, liked by team-mates and opponents in equal measure.

After a career which spanned 30 international caps and three tours with the Lions in the 1970s, Brown holds the world record of eight tries scored by a forward on an international tour.

I love reading the anecdotes from people like Gordon Broon, and it would have been great to attend one of his after dinner speeches.

A gentleman away from the pitch, he was never afraid of a ruck on it, here is an account of a lions tour to South Africa. One of those with whom Gordon Brown fought on the pitch in South Africa was Johan De Bruyn, a fearsome forward from Northern Transvaal with a glass eye which, with the encouragement of the's" fist, flew from its socket and sank in the mud during a third Test melee. "So there we are," recalled Gordon, "30 players plus the ref on our hands and knees scrabbling about in the mire looking for this glass eye. Eventually, someone yells `Eureka!' whereupon De Bruyn grabs it and plonks it straight back in the gaping hole in his face. And when he stands up I can't believe what I'm looking at. . . there's a huge dod of grass sticking out of his eyeball."

Gordon died from non-Hodgkin lymphoma aged 53 in 2001, he fought a long fight against the cancer but reading through the stories, he never gave up and never lost his sense of humour.

As proud a Scot you it is hard to find, one of his last requests, which was obeyed to a man at his funeral was not to wear black but kilts or the red and yellow ties of West of Scotland rugby club. He had planned to record his own eulogy, but died before the recording was made.

Instead, mourners were asked to stand and give the player "one last standing ovation" which lasted several minutes.

His white coffin, decked out in red and yellow flowers mingled with thistles was led out of the church to the sound of a bagpiper playing Flower of Scotland, accompanied by the voices of the congregation.

Indeed, "When will we see yer likes again....."

[dontyoubelieveinfairies]

“At the very least, I need to survive for another six months.“

MUROTA “TOP SPEED” TSUBAME - MAGICAL GIRL RAISING PROJECT/MAHOU SHOUJI IKUSEI KEIKAKU

i love top speed a lot

she didn’t deserve what happened to her ;-;

Want to request? Feel free to request anything by clicking here. I complete everything to the best of my ability.

[adahegerbergfc]

Me watching people say that Sonnet is great 🥴 Have people seen Williamson, Mapi or even Eriksson's tackles and touch, I could think of others but I will stick to what you can easily find on tumblr but like 😭

Oooh, this is a mood, Nonny, and you’re so right!

Let’s do a little defending comparison, shall we?

Leah Williamson is several years younger than Sonnett and still doesn’t do the dirty tackles.

Oh look, another defender who makes a tackle while keeping her cool and not almost ending someone’s career! Be like Mapi!

And here’s Magda, proving that you can do more physical defending without the dirty tactics!

You didn’t mention her in your ask, but there’s also Marina Hegering who’s legitimately one of the best CBs in the world and is actually a tank. And, again, doesn’t resort to dirty challenges.

Also, you don’t even have to leave the country to see defenders light years better than Sonnett! Just look at some of the other players on the USWNT!

Broon is literally known for how she keeps her cool and her extremely well timed tackles.

Not to mention Dunny, whose personality is more boisterous like Sonnett and yet has never made such terrible tackles that could end someone’s career.

And here’s Kriegs showing that Americans can do the physical defending without resorting to dirty plays.

And like, this isn’t even getting into their skills offensively. All of these players have sharp, accurate passes on top of their great defending. Like we both said, much better than Sonnett. 🤷🏻‍♀️

[phoenixflames12]

Epilogue: Remembrance Sunday, 1947

A/N: This takes place in my WW2 AU that began with An Endless Night and takes place seven months after Dancing by Moonlight 

11th November 1947

The Frasers along with their extended family and friends gather in Broch Mordha’s village square to pay their respect to the dead and look to the future for those who have been left behind 

Catch up on all of Vergangenheit on AO3 here

I am going to do a proper acknowledgements post later on, but here is a quick one. This story and this AU would not have been possible without the help, guidance and unfailing support of some very special people, without whom this epilogue would not be here today. 

@momwendy, @abbydebeaupreposts, @gotham-ruaidh, @sassy-sassenach, @missclairebelle , @sassenachwaffles, @lady-o-ren, @mo-nighean-rouge, @whiskynottea and @thatsoccercoach have given this story more than they know- putting words in my head when I had none and breathing such life into this story and its’ characters that I don’t know where I would be without them all. 

This story is also a tribute and a memorial to the men of the 51st Highlander Division who fought at the battle for France in May 1940 and I hope will be a fitting one to all those who have fought and died over the conflicts since. 

11th November 1947

The sky is a cool, crisp grey that hangs over the moor like a cloak, almost shielding the two figures that are making their way over the hill and down the long, winding road that snakes across the softly muted carpet of dead heather and broon completely from view.  

There has been a haw frost in the night, hardening the ground until the mud comes up in thick, rough sods flecked with silver under the treads of their boots, biting against the wind, the winter light thick and low against the shadow of the hills.

The sky is quiet, the songs of the larks and the thrushes held tight in a reverent hush, the black skeletons of a thorn tree copse reaching like spiders across the slate coloured sky.

Jamie’s right hand is heavy on Claire’s arm, the weight of cold skin hard against her own.

The other one is clasped heavily against the horn crook of a walking stick, his fingers stiff and still and cold in their grip.

His face is impassive, the mask of careful blankness that she wishes that she could tear down and smash into a thousand tiny pieces, firmly in place. Only the tremble of the third and fourth fingers of his right hand tell her that anything is amiss, their tattoo slow and aching against the thick fabric of her coat.

‘What is it?’

Her voice is little more than a whisper, watching a muscle in his jaw twitch, the slow throb of his throat as he swallows, trying to find words enough to answer her.

‘It’s…’ He tries to speak and then pauses, holding her gaze with wide eyes that glimmer with ghosts.

His face is pale in the wane light, his lower lids smudged dark with bruising, the crows’ feet that crease the skin around his eyes more pronounced than she has ever seen them.

He has not been sleeping well of late, she knows that.

Has never slept well during the winter since his return, the chill of the wind baring his defences to the elements, lost and frozen as he struggled once more along the bitter death march of memory.

Has felt his body tense against her own in the laird’s room that for so long had hosted his ghost, a body that now moved stubbornly against the aches of flesh and bone on cold mornings.

A body stiffened not just from the physical damages that the war had wrought on him but aggravated to the extreme by the damp of the camps and the frozen wasteland of the march.

Has felt the knot of panic pulsing through suddenly clenched fists return as it had done in those terrifying nights when he had first come home, the tendons in his neck as taut as wire beneath her touch, jumping out against the crumpled linen of the pillowcase.

Has heard his breathing coming out in short, sharp gasps as he struggled against her touch, the names of the dead, breaking against his lips, their memories rising to invade their bed as her words of comfort were lost in the folds of his pyjama shirt.

‘It’s all right, Jamie. It’s just a dream, love. It’s over. I’m here. You’re home. Come back to me. Come back to us.’

‘I know,’ she replies slowly, her voice caught, her hand reaching to clasp his own, drawing their joined fist up so that her lips can brush against his knuckles, holding the wide, fearful gaze with her own.

‘I know.’

The war memorial rises tall and black against the crisp, slate sky when they reach the square.

The figure of an infantry man leaning on his rifle gazes out over the glen from the top of the great, dark obelisk, the cast of his kilt cut so fine that there is a moment in which Claire believes that she can see the thick tartan catch against the ripple of the breeze. His is a young face, a face of so many of the young men, mere boys really, who had come through the doors of the recruiting office, drunk on the promise of doing their bit for King and Country, never to come home again.

The granite that sweeps over his cheek is unlined and hopeful, the dark, sightless eyes bright as he stares out over the square and over the wet-stoned houses of Broch Mordha, looking past the slowly gathering crowd and into a great beyond.

Far out over the moor and onto the deep, purple rimmed hills beyond, the first crisp hints of snow lie soft and undisturbed, bringing with them the first white silences of winter.

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Faith shiver and turn away to Albert, pulling the dark blue nurses’ cape more tightly around her. Even in the cold, her eldest daughter’s skin seems to glow with an internal warmth, the wane, cool sun lighting up the escaped curls that fluttered from her nurses’ cap so that they blaze in a burnished crown of auburn, cinnabar, russet and roan.  

A slight swell tugs at the cut of the grey-blue nurses’ dress, the promise of new life blooming through her cheeks that sparks a fire in Claire’s heart.  

‘Notre petite flocon de neige’, Jamie had called her when Claire had returned with Faith from the hospital to their rented rooms that the RMA had set aside for married couples. 

His eyes had been wide and bright with wonder, sparked through with hope as he had carefully taken the bundle from her, face softening into a smile as the weight of his first-born bairn had settled comfortably into his arms; the softly slanted eyes that Claire will never tire of blinking up into sleepy wakefulness; a soft, mewing cry falling from the virgin lips. 

Those eyes that had blinked once and then fixed themselves on her father’s, surrendering herself completely to his utter adoration.

‘Mo cholom geal ye are,’ he’d whispered, eyes shining as he had caught Claire’s gaze, a large, rough finger softly tracing the barely there line of their daughter’s cheek, the crown of his curls catching at the flickering light of the oil lamp that had hung by the door.

Albert stands tall beside her, feather dark hair hidden under a tweed cap, hazel eyes soft and loving as he bends his head to press a soft kiss against the crown of his wife’s curls, one arm pressed against the slow swell of her waist.

There will be grandchildren soon,she thinks, tightening her grip on Jamie’s hand as the thought spikes against her synapses; a sudden sob catching in her throat.

Grandchildren racing through the rooms of the gatehouse that Jamie has given to Albert and Faith, free of rent, until they find a place to strike out onto and call their own.

Grandchildren with her daughter’s shining eyes and her son-in-law’s soft smile, feather dark heads and blazing blue eyes brimming out of indistinguishable faces.

Grandchildren with lisping voices that would stick out chubby hands for her to hold and call her ‘granny Claire’ as they told her to close her eyes and follow them to the witches’ cauldron or up into the tree house to exclaim over their treasures.

‘Sassenach? Are ye well, mo Sorcha?’

Her husband’s eyes are narrowed with concern as he turns to face her and she nods, a small smile quirking painfully at the corners of her lips.

‘I’m fine, my love,’ the words are a murmur, lost against the warmth and weight of his chest.  

‘Just thinking about all this…’

She turns in his arms, spreading hers wide to encompass the scene; seeing Brianna, who had taken an early train to join them, deep in conversation with Hector Fraser. The toss of her curls is long and loose down her back, the long fingers flying like quicksilver through the cold, crisp air.

Their middle daughter had come home two nights ago, cheeks flushed with the thimbleful of sherry that she had accepted from Claire, eyes burning with stories of being invited to nights at the King’s Theatre with artist friends who spoke of the future as if they owned it as they had gathered into the drawing room after supper, the wireless a low, comforting, background hum that had made Jamie cough out a derisive Scottish noise deep in his throat.

‘She’s not a child anymore,’ she’d murmured as they had got ready for bed that night, the curve of his skull glowing in the flickering lamplight.

A moment of silence, his back turned to her, his shoulders hunching briefly as he had gathered himself, staring out into the night, his unspoken retort hanging thick in the air between them.

‘She’s no’ grown either!’

With a pang to her heart, she had watched him struggle before moving to him, wanting nothing more than to gather him into her arms and banish away all of his hurts.

A sliver of silver moonlight had caught against his curls when she had reached him, picking out the brilliant strands of roan and copper, highlighting the silver threads that linger at his temples.  Tucking her arms about his waist and pressing a soft, unseen kiss against the sweep of his cheek, she had, for the umpteenth time, thanked whatever God was listening, for returning him to her. Aged and battered and bruised he may be but still hers and still, remarkably whole.

She had felt his exhale then, the tightening of his lungs against her hands, the rush of air breathed out in a slow, pained breath.

‘Aye,’ he’d replied after a long moment, turning in her arms to face her; his eyes that are shared by both his daughters wide and shining.

She had nodded and reached out a thumb to press away the crinkle of an age line that had pressed against his forehead, reaching to cup his cheek.

‘Aye, I ken that, mo ghraidh. It… It’s just… Seeing her, all grown up an’ talking about men an’… I fear that she’s growing old before her time, ye ken?’

‘I know,’ she had murmured back, holding his gaze, his eyes very deep and very blue in the dim light, memories of the little girl with the unravelled mane of auburn plaits and grass stains splattered against the hem of her frock who had run amok, claiming every inch of the estate as her own, rising up in the silence before them.

From the passageway, the patter of feet had broken the silence for a moment, the click of the bathroom door opening, the thud of it being pulled to, the air full of the hushed rasp of her husband’s breathing.  

‘But we have to trust her judgement. Trust that she’ll come to us if anything goes wrong. D’you think you can do that?’

It had been a moment before he had replied, the look in his eyes deep and unreadable.

‘Aye’, he had said quietly, a slow smile catching at the corners of his mouth as he had bent his head to kiss her.

She sees William, who has shot through an unexpected growth spurt so that he is now all arms and legs with tawny eyes blazing out of a freckled face pulled taut over growing bones. His hair is a burnished crown of auburn curls against the pale, grey sky as he gazes up into the youthful face that is hewn forever in stone, looking far older than nine.  

‘He’s a braw lad, a nighean.’

Jamie’s voice is a murmured smile that is brimming with pride against her cheek as he follows her gaze and she nods, not looking at him.

‘Minds me a bit o’ me when I was that age,’ he continues, watching the lad talk quietly to Jimmy Atkinson who is staying at the Old Lion with Morag and his bairns, pale faces lost in the crowd.

‘Does he?’

‘Aye,’ he murmurs in reply, eyes turning away from his son to fall on Mhairi Bruce, who is standing a little way apart from the crowd, her long, dark skirt catching in the breeze, hugging herself against the chill.

She still knows so little about this girl whom Brianna had invited home, a girl who looks far older than eighteen with her long, straight skirts and starched white blouses; a girl who wears her past like a cloak, her emerald eyes shuttered with secrets.

Overhead, the thunderheads are rolling over the hills, the last of the sun’s storm-tossed light gleaming against the shadows of the main street.

In the slowly growing crowd, she can just make out Jenny and Ian followed by the brood of younger Murray children, Jenny’s dark eyes softening as she catches Claire’s gaze, shifting their youngest, Caitlin, further up her hip and raising a hand in greeting.

From the clock tower, the bell tolls the quarter hour, hushing the crowd as if a whistle had been blown to silence them and she hears the quick, marching step of Jimmy coming up to greet Jamie, his salute sharp against the sky.  

The poppy wreath is looped over his arm, jewels of scarlet pinned against the black backdrop, the light from Jamie’s medals pinned to his lapel glinting in the light.

His dark eyes shine with shared memories, the depths of his pupils glistening with names that Claire has heard her husband cry out in the dark of his nightmares, whimpered desperately like a catechism as he struggled through the worst of his memories.

Out of the corner of her eye, she catches Faith’s gaze, a soft smile catching at her eldest daughter’s lips, the names of the dead soft and unspoken between them.

‘Tiang gu, mo chariad,’ Jamie replies quietly, returning the salute and accepting the wreath.

Somewhere at the edge of the crowd, the wail of Aonghas’s Lindsay’s pipes cry out in the silence, the strains of Flowers of the Forest rising soft and eerie through the dying light.

The pipes melody rises and weeps and cries for the men that had been lost as Father Cameron steps up to address the silent crowd.

His voice is low and carrying, ringing over the square so that cloth caps are removed and heads bent, speaking of the young men who had gone so bravely and quietly from the lands that they loved, but rarely spoke of.

It had not been in them to speak of that love, but they had held it in their hearts regardless, held like a lit lamp whose flame burnt quiet and strong and true in their quest to fight and die in the defence of their country.

A shiver ripples down Claire’s spine at that, an unbidden sob catching in her throat as she sees Kirsty and Mhairi Fraser weeping quietly in Hector’s arms, his handsome face white and strained as he holds onto his Mam and sister watching Aonghas slowly step around the memorial, his pipes singing out in the stillness, the tune dancing through the village and leaping up over the moor. Joe’s ghost waits quietly beside them, the quirk of his quick, dark smile shivering in the silence as he slips away to join the others that had fallen with him.

Others that were little more than names now, but whose memories would live on in those that loved them, in those who had lost pieces of their hearts to the dark shadows of the German hills.

She sees Mhairi Bruce hug herself a little tighter against the chill, her pale face that is flushed with cold turned skywards, her eyes shining with the glimmer of unshed tears, lips pursed together, not looking at Brianna who moves towards her, a tentative hand reaching out to hold her own before slipping away.

Sees Albert nod quietly to Faith and bend to kiss her gently, dark eyes gleaming as they watch her disappear into the crowd before turning back to the memorial, face set and dark with memories.

‘Mam?’

The weight of William and Brianna’s hands clasping into her own takes her by surprise.

Faith comes quietly up beside them, the warmth of a calloused, work worn hand reaching gently to rest against Claire’s arm, her head burying itself against the pit of her shoulder blade; a soft, sad smile playing at the corner of her lips.

And then, out of nowhere, the bell begins to toll in the hour and Faith’s hand tightens against her shoulder.  

Brianna and William’s eyes are fixed on the figure of their father, his crown of curls glowing with burnished fire against the grey, November light as he steps up to lay the wreath against the cold, dark foot of the stone.

His face is set and white in the stillness, eyes blazing with quiet dignity, the ghosts of his men rising for the last time around him.

And in the stillness, a lone voice rings out, letting the brave, quiet words of Binyon’s poem fill the air, tearing Claire’s heart open afresh.

As she stands there, the weight of her children’s hands clasped in her own, listening to the old, proud words as they ring out over the square, she watches Jamie step back and raise his head to the soldier who guarded the silent names of those who had been lost and give a silent nod.

They went with songs to the battle, they were young,

Straight of limb, true of eye and aglow,

They were staunch until the end against odds uncounted,

They fell with their faces to the foe.

They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old,

Age shall not weary them, nor shall the years condemn,

At the going down of the sun and in the morning,

We will remember them.

                                                                                                           Fin

[drew61bhoy]

A GLESCA WEAN by Cathleen Sweeney Ah wis born an bred in Glesca, Aye, Glesca is ma hame, Bein' brought up in a tenement Made me a typical wean. We didnae hiv much money So ma mammy went oot tae work An' when Ah hid oan ma Sunday claes Ah dareny play in the durt. Ah didnae hiv very many toys Like the weans a, hiv the day, Ma pals were happy girls an, boys Wi lots o' games tae play. We played at ,cowboys an, indians, We played at ,hide an, seek, , When we counted tae 100 nice an, fast An' ye wirnae allowed tae peek. Then we,d tie some string through two tin cans An' we,d put them oan oor feet An' stomp like something frae outer space Right up an, doon oor street. There wis ,doublers, ,ropes, an kick the can, We played 'rounders, roon the back Then we'd sit oan toap o' the midden Tellin' ghost stories till it goat dark. We'd walk tae the Pictures Matinee Oan a Setterday afternoon, Where a man came oot tae make us a'sing An wave hankies in time tae the tune. We booed an, cheered at the Westerns, The Three Stoogies made us a, laugh, Then came the cartoons - Mickey Mouse an, Popeye - Tae make up the hours an, a half We ate toffee apples an,candy cakes An chewed oan liquorice sticks, Soor plooms that pul't yir jaws right in, Dry wafers - a penny for six. We read the Beano an, Dandy, Oor Wullie an' The Broons, We even hid back court concerts, Tap dancin, tae popular tunes. In this rhyme Ah,ve tried tae turn back the clock Tae aboot forty-odd years ago, Tae paint a picture o, whit life wis like For a wean in old Glasgow. When there wisnae a word like junkie An naebody that Ah knew sniffed glue, Today Ah jist cannae help thinkin,- Whit,s happenin,tae Glesca weans noo?🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿

[pokedcheck]

it’s not that leafs are sucking, it’s that the broons are being annoying with sticks n shit

[iwouldliketocalmdown]

What do they need to fire Jill? Do we need to drop in the rankings? I mean we placed last in our own tournament, didn't even make bronze in the Olympics, the lineups look like trash, respected vets have been mistreated and alienated, and now this BS on the roster? If Jill is cutting the "aging" players, how is Lloyd allowed to stay? (Side note, we all know Broon should be wearing the arm band. Everyone knows this, it's just a fact.) And this can't be solely about age because Sonnett didn't get the call up. Promising players (Ohai for one) left off and proven entities like Krieger and (sorta) Sonnett cut?? I straight up do not understand. USSF leaving the women with Jill feels like a punishment for taking a stand against the federation. Krieger is still easily a top RB in the world, if she's not THE top RB. Solo should be invited back and it's entirely a political move to keep her off the roster---she is the best keeper in the game, FACT. Hinkle has been shown time and again to fail at the international level. Kling keeps getting burned and she's still getting a call? And (throwback) giving Pinoe a spot on the Olympic roster even though she was barely removed from rehab for that knee? And honestly, Lloyd has taken a dive off a cliff in the last year; she can't make it a full 90 and does not create or operate properly in the mid. She relies entirely on the work of teammates and blames them for her own inadequacies. (I'll be honest, I have a whole separate Lloyd rant so this really isn't the place...) I don't understand the logic of Ellis' choices. It honestly feels as though she doesn't watch NWSL games or pay proper attention to the GAMES SHE'S EVEN COACHING. See the youth, grow the program, whatever. You can (and should) do all of that without losing every game for poor tactics and shitty lineups. Past coaches have been fired for better results and Ellis sticking around is unbelievable and untenable. The women deserve better, and so do we.

[brittlenacho]

At this point, I'd like to reflect on the past three games. Here are my opinions/observations from the She Believes tourney: •Carli Lloyd is--obviously--in a slump. Since Jill is so insistent on building the team around her, it creates an environment on the pitch where if she's not playing well, the whole pace of the game is thrown to hell. The match tonight and the loss to England are perfect examples of this. •The three back is the worst tactical decision Jill has made. It would've been okay if she had played something involving JJ-Broon-Ali or basically any three back involving actual defenders. She didn't though. She chose to put a defensive mid, Long, in a new position against some of the best teams in the world (and not to mention, Allie doesn't play CB at Portland, she plays D-Mid/CM). It's like Stephen Curry playing center with the US men's basketball team, it would never work and should never happen. •Goalkeepers are something that should be addressed immediately. Harris is okay, Naeher is okay, but we need to see some consistency in between the posts from the keeper position. Keeper-backline communication is vital to a team's success (to quote Jill: "Defense wins championships), and changing the starting GK every game doesn't help the situation at all, especially when she wants to pull bullshit like trying out a three-back and new keepers at the same time. •The goal against England is on the whole team, not Harris. The three back failed and there wasn't great communication on defense, resulting in a late goal leading to a 1-0 loss. Though I disagree with the 3-back formation, I wouldn't put that goal on Jill either (I do believe that the tournament loss is on her though). •We have a bright future. Rose, Pugh, Horan, Moe, Sonnett (even though she didn't play), and Lynn are players that give me hope in the team's future. JJ is pretty young too, and we have a solid captainship pool in Heath, O'Hara, Alex Morgan, and Krieger for (Hopefully) the next two cycles. •Casey Short didn't play well vs France. I know no one exactly played "well", but Short didn't have any superb moments in tonight's game. She had trouble completing passes and her decision making was off. Maybe it was just one bad game, or maybe it's because she's only been capped a handful of times, but it's something that stuck out to me. •Jill Ellis has some self-reflecting to do. If she's going to try new things with a world class team, they better make sense on paper before she tries them in-game. Sure, Long played alright at CB against Romania and the other teams we played before 2017, but again, most of them weren't even ranked top twenty in FIFA standings. •Either Alex Morgan has a potentially serious injury and they're too worried about exposing it to too much play, or Jill Ellis has a stick up her arse. Alex is vital to our communication in the attack and is, usually, a very vocal player. Seeing her up top in a 4-3-3 with Press and Lynn would be better than only having her and Lynn ,or her and Press, up top.

[frumpkinspocketdimension]

USWNT soccer and hockey

Aight anon, here we go lmao. I’m just sticking to current members of the team because if you let me use retired players, I’d take forever, haha.

Footy:

is my favouriteARod, HAO or Tobs. All of them are really wonderful.

i like the most when it comes to the appearanceKelley O’Hara

i would play a prank onKelley O’Hara

i would get drunk withKelley O’Hara

i would choose for my partner if i got an invitation for a weddingPress.

i could just cuddle all day longCrystal Dunn. I love her so much omg

i would ask for an advice if i had problemsNaeher. She seems really wise tbh

i would bake cookies forBroon. She probably needs cookies a lot, considering how much stress she’s under all the time carrying this team

i would read a fanfic aboutJill Ellis trying to fix a sinking ship by scuttling it...

i would write a fanfic aboutKelley O’Hara and all her pranks

i would prefer to play in another teamOhai. If it were any other team, she’d see so much more time on the field

Hockey: 

is my favouriteKacey or Meghan. Or BOTH.

i like the most when it comes to the appearanceOh, Knighter, no question

i would play a prank onKess. I’d stick a cup of water under her bucket or something, haha

i would get drunk withI feel like Hannah Brandt would be a fun drunk, idk

i would choose for my partner if i got an invitation for a weddingFUCK man, if I could go to a wedding with Hilary Knight on my arm??!?

i could just cuddle all day longProbably Cameranesi, mostly because I’ve had a longtime crush on her

i would ask for an advice if i had problemsBellamy, no question about it

i would bake cookies forLee Stecklin. ‘Cause she’s sweet. Geddit?

i would read a fanfic aboutFuck, idk... maybe one about McLaughlin being a motherduck?

i would write a fanfic aboutKess and Knighter’s friendship

i would prefer to play in another teamMeghan Duggan. I’d like it if she played for Canada instead, haha.

WHEW this was hard, thanks anon!!

[scotianostra]

On November 1st 1947 Gordon Brown “Broon fae Troon” was born.

Gordon was born in 1947 in Troon, the son of former Clyde and Scotland goalkeeper Jock Brown, he had also been a golfer playing off a scratch handicap, he had appeared in the Scottish Open at Royal Troon alongside golfing greats such as Arnold Palmer. Gordon’s big brother Peter also played for and Captained Scotland to 3 victories over England scoring 67 international points making him our all time highest scoring rugby forward.

Despite his fearsome build, 6ft 5ins and 16 stone, Brown was a genial and gentle giant, liked by team-mates and opponents in equal measure.

After a career which spanned 30 international caps and three tours with the Lions in the 1970s, Brown holds the world record of eight tries scored by a forward on an international tour.

I love reading the anecdotes from people like Gordon Broon, and it would have been great to attend one of his after dinner speeches.

A gentleman away from the pitch, he was never afraid of a ruck on it, here is an account of a lions tour to South Africa. One of those with whom Gordon Brown fought on the pitch in South Africa was Johan De Bruyn, a fearsome forward from Northern Transvaal with a glass eye which, with the encouragement of the’s" fist, flew from its socket and sank in the mud during a third Test melee. “So there we are,” recalled Gordon, “30 players plus the ref on our hands and knees scrabbling about in the mire looking for this glass eye. Eventually, someone yells `Eureka!’ whereupon De Bruyn grabs it and plonks it straight back in the gaping hole in his face. And when he stands up I can’t believe what I’m looking at… there’s a huge dod of grass sticking out of his eyeball.”

Gordon died from non-Hodgkin lymphoma aged 53 in 2001, he fought a long fight against the cancer but reading through the stories, he never gave up and never lost his sense of humour.

As proud a Scot you it is hard to find, one of his last requests, which was obeyed to a man at his funeral was not to wear black but kilts or the red and yellow ties of West of Scotland rugby club. He had planned to record his own eulogy, but died before the recording was made.

Instead, mourners were asked to stand and give the player “one last standing ovation” which lasted several minutes.

His white coffin, decked out in red and yellow flowers mingled with thistles was led out of the church to the sound of a bagpiper playing Flower of Scotland, accompanied by the voices of the congregation.

Indeed, “When will we see yer likes again…..”

[uswnt]

All ;)

1. Favorite team (nt or club)USWNT and CRS/PTFC2. Name a team you dislike (nt or club)NCC3. If you could give a red card to any player who would it be?I’d give Mathias another red cause I’m still bitter about her nasty play4.If you were a wag who's wag would you be?Did this5. Do own any jerseys?Yeah I got a Barca Neymar one as a gift years ago (rip)6. Favorite legendary player?Did this7. If you could transfer one player to your team who would it be?Don’t @ me but CP to Portland8. If you could sell a player who would it be?Dalton, please get her outta CRS9. Which player do you think is overrated?Ash. She’s good but not that good10. Which player do you think is underrated?Menges11. Top 5 footballers?Tobs, Chris, Jflem, Kelley, Becky12. Favorite goal?Did this13. Have you seen your team play live?No but T-minus 2 days!!14. Who is the hottest footballer?Did this15. Who is the least attractive?Have you seen soccer players? They’re all hot16. If you could play football with one player for a day who would it be?Tobs17. Create your own starting eleven (any player from any club)?I’m gonna just stick to uswnt cause I’m too tired to actually put thought into this Franch or AlyssaBroon, Sonnett, Menges, ShortJJ, Kelley, Sam, TobsCP, Alex

[dzsenifermarozsan]

Lyon frawnt gerwnt

send me a team and i will tell you which player:

Lyon- answered

frawnt:

is my favourite: camille

i like the most when it comes to the appearance: i just want to say that france have a veryyyy attractive team and they’re all appropriate answers. with that said either camille or thomis 

i would play a prank on: majri was my answer for lyon so i’ll stick w/ her

i would get drunk with: sakina, els

i would choose for my partner if i got an invitation for a wedding: camille

i could just cuddle all day long: all of them ok

i would ask for an advice if i had problems: i answered camille for lyon but i’ll switch it up and say georges

i would bake cookies for: bussaglia ...poor girl lost her v attractive *** *** 

i would read a fanfic about: delie and thiney scoring goals !!!

i would write a fanfic about: france winning and celebrating the euros ! ! 

i would prefer to play in another team: .......camille to the uswnt pls, we could use a good cm and someone who can take FKs and corners...or renard, imagine her w/ broon whew lad.

gerwnt

is my favourite: marooooo

i like the most when it comes to the appearance: kemme ! whew, does melly count if she’s not on the euro roster? her too.

i would play a prank on: josi

i would get drunk with: svenja

i would choose for my partner if i got an invitation for a wedding: maro

i could just cuddle all day long: let me just say i’m in love with kemme

i would ask for an advice if i had problems: i feel like josi would give good advice idk why

i would bake cookies for: maier

i would read a fanfic about: blah

i would write a fanfic about:blahblah

i would prefer to play in another team: i’m here to recruit for the uswnt bc i’m american so maro to the USWNT PLEASE ....orrrr maro to france please 

thanks !!

[caveartfair]

The Hallucinatory Art of Milwaukee’s Most Fabled Eccentric

Portrait courtesy of the artist.

Untitled, November 18, 1978, 1978. Eugene Von Bruenchenhein Fleisher/Ollman

Above the doorway of the kitchen of his Milwaukee bungalow, Edward Eugene Von Bruenchenhein (pronounced BROON-shen-hine) mounted a small metal plaque on which he’d inscribed his various vocations: “Freelance Artist — Poet and Sculptor — Inovator [sic] — Arrow maker and Plant man — Bone artifacts constructor — Photographer and Architect — Philosopher.” Despite what he deemed to be the grand significance of these pursuits, most Milwaukeeans who encountered this runty recluse viewed him and his activities far differently, in what might be summed up with one word: oddball.

Although he craved recognition and made efforts to attain it, such an estimation didn’t faze Von Bruenchenhein. From his youth, “EVB” (as a now-adoring art world refers to him) possessed a lofty sense of his own destiny, which he knew others could not fathom. A high school dropout, graded 4-F due to his diminutive size when he tried to enlist during World War II, he never acceded beyond a menial job at a flower shop and, later, a commercial bakery. “Many who have brought enlightenment to the world seem strang [sic] to the lay man…” he noted in one of his many philosophical proclamations, in which he also declared, “I am from another world, I always felt so, and by my work it cannot be disavowed, disclaimed or, refused.”

Eugene von Bruenchenhein, Untitled (abstraction), 1956. Courtesy of Andrew Edlin Gallery.

Eugene von Bruenchenhein, Untitled (Bone Spiral), 1960-1980. Courtesy of Andrew Edlin Gallery.

Following EVB’s death in 1983, examples of his vast production—photography, drawings, paintings, ceramics, and sculptural constructions made from bone—were discovered, and have since been acquired by prominent international art museums and private collections. The John Michael Kohler Arts Center, in Sheboygan, Wisconsin, which rescued his work and first established his reputation, is presenting “Mythologies: Eugene Von Bruenchenhein,” a sensitively installed retrospective, on view through January 14, 2018.  

An accompanying catalogue examines, in the words of contributing essayist, artist, and Wisconsin native Michelle Grabner, the “uniquely individual imagination formed within a man who was hemmed in by a midcentury, middle-American landscape.” An essay by Brett Littman, the director of New York’s Drawing Center, posits EVB as an imaginative theorist and conceiver of self-generating aesthetic systems, akin to those found in everything from classical elements of Islamic design to the buildings of Antoni Gaudí.

Indeed, it’s hard not to think of the artist as a marvelous American fusion of the visionary artistry of William Blake and Max Ernst; Von Bruenchenhein preached with passionate lyricism about the cosmic divinity apparent all around us, while realizing surreal visions of heaven and hell in paint and bone, using inventive techniques of his own devising.

Born in Marinette, Wisconsin, on July 31, 1910, to a sign maker and his wife, EVB was the second of three sons. Early in his life, the family moved to a bungalow that his father built in West Allis, a suburb of Milwaukee. His mother died when he was seven, and his father remarried shortly thereafter. His new wife was Elizabeth Mosley, a freethinking and adventurous woman who had been a school teacher in Panama and became a major inspiration for EVB, encouraging his interest in nature, especially plants, and astronomy, metaphysics, and art making.

After Moseley died in 1938, EVB met a 19-year-old woman named Evelyn Kalka at the Wisconsin State Fair. She liked to draw and paint. The couple married four years later and moved into the house EVB had grown up in, which his father gave them.

Untitled (Marie against hibiscus backdrop, hair up, arm bent and behind head, "South Pacific" feel), ca. 1940s. Eugene Von Bruenchenhein Fleisher/Ollman

Marie w Beads, ca. 1940. Eugene Von Bruenchenhein Carl Hammer Gallery

What Kalka didn’t know then is that over the years the house would turn into a fantastical realm of her husband’s obsessive art practice, packed from floor to ceiling with his creations, with its walls and floors also serving as canvases. “It was like King Tut’s tomb,” one friend later said. There were even giant exotic heads standing guard around its exterior.

Before her marriage, Kalka seems to have been adrift. She left school in the eighth grade, and was unemployed during her courtship with Von Bruenchenhein. Not long after her wedding, her husband renamed her “Marie,” after a favorite aunt. Was this evidence of his domineering personality as some contemporary critics have suggested, or—responding to the alchemy of romantic love—did Kalka elect to be transmuted by her beloved into an elevated state of womanhood by the name of Marie? We’ll probably never know.

What we do know is that EVB adored her—and it’s clear why. She possessed something of the winning wholesome sexiness of Marilyn Monroe back when she was Norma Jean. Her husband wrote poems to and about her; made crowns for “the Duchess Marie” (he was convinced of some misty aristocratic background they both possessed); painted her name on the walls of their home; and inscribed it on one of his bone towers.

But most significantly, he photographed the radiant Marie: posed against fabric backdrops printed with tropical flowers and leaves, sometimes fully dressed, but more often nude or semi-nude in lingerie or simple white panties, and sometimes gently bound by strands of cheap imitation pearls like an odalisque. Thus began an erotic dance between husband and wife, a fantasy world that unfolded over two decades. EVB would develop the images in their bathroom.

Untitled, n.d.. Eugene Von Bruenchenhein Fleisher/Ollman

City Cibola (April 3, 1981), 1981. Eugene Von Bruenchenhein Fleisher/Ollman

Contemporary critics have been divided as to how to assess these photographs. Was Marie a precursor to Cindy Sherman? How collaborative were the portraits? In any case, as the sessions went on, the initial frisson soon faded into a wife’s affectionate but bored indulgence. By 1954, Von Bruenchenhein had instead begun to turn his attention to painting.

The threat of an atomic war was also an urgent motivator and subject. Deeply distressed by the idea of nuclear destruction, he would come home from work and paint into the wee hours in a kind of frenzy, depicting horrific, saturated scenes of landscapes rife with fire and explosions on Masonite or cardboard panels cut from discarded bakery boxes. True to his idiosyncratic vision, EVB did not paint in a typical way but developed his own process, maneuvering paint with his fingers, quills, nails, leaves, sticks, and later burlap, cardboard, and crumpled paper. (Later, he would use an actual paintbrush when working on his ceramic and bone constructions. But they were paintbrushes made out of locks of Marie’s hair, bound to a stick or cocktail straw, as he had little extra cash to spend on art supplies.)

Keen to communicate his message, he appears to have sent at least one of his paintings to the Kennedy White House, as there is a letter from the Oval Office thanking him for a painting. And here it’s worth noting that while EVB is usually categorized as an “outsider artist,” he was in fact a man deeply engaged in the world. He read the newspaper, as well as books.  He had at least one volume on modern art theory, Amédée Ozenfant’s Foundations of Modern Art, a 1952 edition.

He possessed both a telescope and a microscope, and what he saw using these scientific instruments served as inspiration for many of his most remarkable paintings. He created, for instance, a whole series of hallucinatory works in psychedelic hues portraying the creatures and terrain of the First World, a colossal planet which he believed was Earth’s progenitor, having been split off from it during a cataclysmic event eons before. Other of EVB’s paintings presciently resemble images of nebulae that the Hubble telescope has documented only in the past two decades or so.

By 1959, a variety of physical ailments forced Von Bruenchenhein to leave his bakery job; for the rest of his life, he and Marie would subsist on his disability income. Although impoverished and ailing, his curiosity and creativity remained fully stoked. In the mid-1960s, his attention turned to making elaborate ballpoint drawings with the aid of rulers, French curves, and other drafting instruments. The works suggest floral imagery, birds, spaceships, and temples, which he glued into an enormous book of wallpaper samples.

Eugene von Bruenchenhein, Untitled, 1960s. Courtesy of Andrew Edlin Gallery.

Eugene von Bruenchenhein, Untitled (n. 832), 1959. Courtesy of Andrew Edlin Gallery.

After a few years, he began sculpting facsimiles of flowers and sedum, and assembling floriated urns, sensors, and crowns out of singularly formed clay petals and leaves. These he baked in his kitchen oven before painting. He also began assembling fantastical miniature thrones out of salvaged turkey and chicken bones that, to contemporary eyes, resemble props for a sci-fi video game, or early models for Joris Laarman’s computer-generated Bone chair.

Out of these investigations, EVB developed a whole new body of work, beginning in 1976: his tower paintings. These he created with an entirely new painting technique, in which he used the fluted ends of pieces of cardboard to apply paint onto a smooth cardboard surface, producing what looks like linear structures, which he then “built” with. The effect is somewhat reminiscent of decalcomania, a technique closely associated with Ernst; EVB’s palette resembles Ernst’s, as well. These utopian visions of a splendid new world may speak of a new civilization to come, or possibly the artist’s own arrival in a new metaphysical realm.

As if to ground his vision in a tangible reality, in 1979, EVB began assembling actual towers, each several feet tall, using poultry bones. Leg, wing, and breastbones served as the base, and smaller, thinner bones and vertebrae formed the shaft. Some of the structures are crowned, fittingly enough, with hollow eggs. So many bones were required for the series that EVB and Marie had to raid the dumpsters behind local Kentucky Fried Chicken restaurants to acquire the necessary supplies. If they bear a certain resemblance to the Watts Towers in L.A., that isn’t by coincidence: A newspaper clipping about Simon Rodia’s creations was found among EVB’s personal papers. (Interestingly, these works may be the first instance of one “outsider artist” influencing another.)  

In 1981, two years before he died, EVB returned to his tower paintings. City Cibola, one of the last he completed before his death, refers to the mythic Mexican city rich in gold, which tantalized the conquistadors.

The promise of riches certainly eluded Von Bruenchenhein his entire life; but then, the curse of the prophet is that he seldom lives to see the promised land. In one of his philosophical musings, he observed: “We consider ourselves so smart and yet after the great length of time man has lived on Earth, he has just scratched the surface of knowledge. . . .As far as science goes we have only looked at the mirror, not [at] what is concealed behind.” Von Bruenchenhein may never have experienced critical acclaim or financial reward for his unique talents and vision, but it seems he did get to see behind the mirror. That’s a reward reserved for only a chosen few.  

—Marisa Bartolucci

from Artsy News

[scotianostra]

On November 1st 1947 Gordon Brown was born.

Naw no that politician erse, the ither yin, Gordon Broon frae Troon the Scottish Rugby legend also known as the baby-faced assassin.

Brown was born in 1947 in Troon, the son of former Clyde and Scotland goalkeeper Jock Brown, he had also been a golfer playing off a scratch handicap, he had appeared in the Scottish Open at Royal Troon alongside golfing greats such as Arnold Palmer. Gordon’s big brother Peter also played for and Captained Scotland to 3 victories over England scoring 67 international points making him our all time highest scoring rugby forward.

Despite his fearsome build, 6ft 5ins and 16 stone, Brown was a genial and gentle giant, liked by team-mates and opponents in equal measure.

After a career which spanned 30 international caps and three tours with the Lions in the 1970s, Brown holds the world record of eight tries scored by a forward on an international tour.

I love reading the anecdotes from people like Gordon Broon, and it would have been great to attend one of his after dinner speeches.

A gentleman away from the pitch, he was never afraid of a ruck on it, here is an account of a lions tour to South Africa. One of those with whom Gordon Brown fought on the pitch in South Africa was Johan De Bruyn, a fearsome forward from Northern Transvaal with a glass eye which, with the encouragement of the’s" fist, flew from its socket and sank in the mud during a third Test melee. “So there we are,” recalled Gordon, “30 players plus the ref on our hands and knees scrabbling about in the mire looking for this glass eye. Eventually, someone yells `Eureka!’ whereupon De Bruyn grabs it and plonks it straight back in the gaping hole in his face. And when he stands up I can’t believe what I’m looking at… there’s a huge dod of grass sticking out of his eyeball.”

Gordon died from non-Hodgkin lymphoma aged 53 in 2001, he fought a long fight against the cancer but reading through the stories, he never gave up and never lost his sense of humour.

As proud a Scot you it is hard to find, one of his last requests, which was obeyed to a man at his funeral was not to wear black but kilts or the red and yellow ties of West of Scotland rugby club. He had planned to record his own eulogy, but died before the recording was made.

Instead, mourners were asked to stand and give the player “one last standing ovation” which lasted several minutes.

His white coffin, decked out in red and yellow flowers mingled with thistles was led out of the church to the sound of a bagpiper playing Flower of Scotland, accompanied by the voices of the congregation.

Indeed, “When will we see yer likes again…..”

[scotianostra]

On November 1st 1947 Gordon Brown was born.

Naw no that erse, the ither yin, Gordon Broon frae Troon the Scottish Rugby legend also known as the baby-faced assassin.

Brown was born in 1947 in Troon, the son of former Clyde and Scotland goalkeeper Jock Brown, he had also been a golfer playing off a scratch handicap, he had appeared in the Scottish Open at Royal Troon alongside golfing greats such as Arnold Palmer. Gordon's big brother Peter also played for and Captained Scotland to 3 victories over England scoring 67 international points making him our all time highest scoring rugby forward.

Despite his fearsome build, 6ft 5ins and 16 stone, Brown was a genial and gentle giant, liked by team-mates and opponents in equal measure.

After a career which spanned 30 international caps and three tours with the Lions in the 1970s, Brown holds the world record of eight tries scored by a forward on an international tour.

I love reading the anecdotes from people like Gordon Broon, and it would have been great to attend one of his after dinner speeches.

A gentleman away from the pitch, he was never afraid of a ruck on it, here is an account of a lions tour to South Africa. One of those with whom Gordon Brown fought on the pitch in South Africa was Johan De Bruyn, a fearsome forward from Northern Transvaal with a glass eye which, with the encouragement of the's" fist, flew from its socket and sank in the mud during a third Test melee. "So there we are," recalled Gordon, "30 players plus the ref on our hands and knees scrabbling about in the mire looking for this glass eye. Eventually, someone yells `Eureka!' whereupon De Bruyn grabs it and plonks it straight back in the gaping hole in his face. And when he stands up I can't believe what I'm looking at. . . there's a huge dod of grass sticking out of his eyeball."

Gordon died from non-Hodgkin lymphoma aged 53 in 2001, he fought a long fight against the cancer but reading through the stories, he never gave up and never lost his sense of humour.

As proud a Scot you it is hard to find, one of his last requests, which was obeyed to a man at his funeral was not to wear black but kilts or the red and yellow ties of West of Scotland rugby club. He had planned to record his own eulogy, but died before the recording was made.

Instead, mourners were asked to stand and give the player "one last standing ovation" which lasted several minutes.

His white coffin, decked out in red and yellow flowers mingled with thistles was led out of the church to the sound of a bagpiper playing Flower of Scotland, accompanied by the voices of the congregation.

Indeed, "When will we see yer likes again....."