#but it was on top of a bean cheese purée thing and. it’s just fucking beans. texture and taste
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category 5 autism event (had to eat at fancy upscale restaurant) hundreds dead thousands injured
#had to flee to the bathroom bc I was having such a bad Texture Reaction that it was like. driving me to tears#once things start costing more than like. 40 bucks a meal it’s practically inedible to me#bc it’s too fucking Fancy for my palette or whatever#start putting in too many things I hate or can’t deal w#and like I was excited bc there was a steak option which I Like#but it was on top of a bean cheese purée thing and. it’s just fucking beans. texture and taste#and it’s gross and the mouth feel alone almost made me Throw Up when I tried it (not a joke)#and then like. the steak got ruined for me bc. it’s got that on the bottom half.#and it’s such a MINOR amt I could prob deal but my head started catastrophizing and. idk I just can’t eat more#so. now we hiding in the restroom til I can calm down HDKSNDN#anyway. gonna go home and have like a Chip Sandwich gang let’s GOOOOO#og post#personal
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How to lose 30 kilos in 6 months and love every minute
Part 1 > Revelation in France Three years ago, my wife and I decided to call time on our marriage. It was a sombre final chat in the kitchen, sharing the last bottle we might ever share. We were sad but it made perfect sense. We’d tried. My wife said she’d move out down to her parent's house in the country and she asked me what I'd do, I picked something random from the top of my idiot head and said “Spain.” “Spain?” she said and “Spain” I repeated. No idea where it came from. Maybe I just wanted my departure to be more triumphant, a little more exciting than moving in with parents. Whenever we’d have a fight, that’s what she’d do. I'd run my consultancy for twenty odd years and over that twenty odd years, my role had evolved into taking clients to lunch, dinner, shows and spectacles. Nice if you can get it but it took its toll on my fitness. By the time I drove off to the Channel Tunnel, I was eighteen stone and I hadn't played a meaningful game of football in years. For some reason, a revelation always hits me a while after the event, more autopsy than eureka. Something that seemed so clear suddenly fogs up in deference to the new truth. Of course she was right, idiot. You always knew that. “If you can’t respect your own body,” she said. “How can anyone else?” And there it was. Respect your body. Respect your mind. Fitness. Breathe new air. Everything is going to change. If my automated blurting of “Spain” was taking me to Spain, then let it be Spain. I would return triumphant, slim, toned and sleek and everyone would say how awesome and happy and better-without-her I was. I was more than halfway from Calais, driving to a small French town called Île de Ré, an island off La Rochelle on the West Coast. I remember the exact spot because the signs had shown their first direction to Le Mans. From that sign, 300km shy of my target, facing three more driving hours, I lost a lump of time I can’t account for. The next thing I knew there were signs for La Roche Sur Yon. I remembered it from my planning stage because it was pretty close to where I was headed. The sat nav confirmed I was suddenly only an hour from Ile de Rey in what seemed like a blink. I couldn't tell you why it happened and I have no idea what, if anything, I was thinking in the missing time. What I can tell you is the clarity on the other side. My new start. My new energy. My mission. Maybe the universe had supplanted a new person into me. Maybe it took me time to reboot. It felt like it. At that moment, I couldn’t possibly have imagined anything else. I’d booked a little room overlooking the harbour at Le Colonnes. I was soon checked in and I unloaded laptop and cables to start the mission I hadn't quite fleshed out yet. 6 foot 1. 18 stone. I fumbled my finger over the Body Mass Index chart, into the blue, sailing past green and into the orange, and just before getting into the red, there it was. My number. My target. 32. I was actually clinically obese. I needed to be 24 to fit into that little green zone of health and fitness. 25% of my bodyweight was surplus. This was a holy **** moment as I pulled back from the screen. I closed the laptop and swore foulness on that 25%. My mission had shown its numbers and my plan had started. That night would be the finest French cuisine a man can enjoy and the next day, everything would change. Part 2 > Mission Planning I woke up remembering Le Skipper in the harbour, the fillet steak with crushed pea purée and dauphinoise potatoes that would serve as my turning point.Something I wouldn’t deserve again until my mission was accomplished. I was still buzzed. Normally, revelations are flushed with the first order of the day but not this one. The morning after a revelation is a test of human willpower. If you fold at such an early point, there is literally no hope for you. If the stakes are this important and you fold, you, my son, are an idiot. As one lady said to me more than once, “It’s not a rehearsal, boy.” I wasn't sure if I was still an idiot or not yet as all manners of sweet and savoury things greeted me in the breakfast room at the hotel. Bacon, eggs croissants, jam, cheeses and hams, but hang on, my eyes focused on something else, like they were being moved by another force. The fruit section. Normally I'd be starting a three course mini marathon under the guise of getting the day some energy. Today though, I took a little bowl and filled it to the top with melon and orange, mango, cherries and all colour of things and I sat down with orange juice and looked over at big people and little people, busy people and relaxed people. I knew I was on a different level to them, just for now, in the light still shining on me. Your willpower gets a serious shot in the arm. I had more research to do about the exact food groups I'd need but I knew this was right. Then the first glimmers of insubordination popped up briefly and reminded me that I had a fallback and that fallback was called lunch and every day I had a fallback plan to the next meal. Maybe fruit wasn't enough, surely a bit of bacon and cheese? No, fuck off, I said, turning a head or two in the dining room. I gestured an apology and then I smiled at the last cherry in my bowl. I munched that little cherry up. There would be no bacon or cheese. Those dark little glimmers were crushed and squished and left pleading as I got up and left the room. I was smiling as I approached Bordeaux. Today's destination was about six hours over the Pyrenees to Pamplona in northern Spain. This is where they do the bull run every July. Basque country, and the Bordeaux signs told me I was about a third of the way there. The night before had included two bottles of Fitou. Le Skipper was quiet and the staff had time to chat. After dinner, I was pretty much the only punter there so they wrapped it up and took me to Bar Kokot with their Austrian Rum. So, there hadn’t been time to do the work I needed but what a fine farewell to my old life. Yet another sign flashed my licence plate and said I was going too fast and I anticipated a box full of speeding tickets waiting for me whenever I got back to London. But I didn't care. I couldn't wait to get to Pamplona and get the laptop out, make my plan. A few hours later I was in my room at the Pamplona Catedral Hotel doing just that. I already knew how much weight to lose. Thirty kilos, almost 5 stone. One of the first results, I found out about the Okinawa diet. Okinawa, a little island off the south of Japan has the longest living humans on the planet. Taxi drivers are ninety years old and still dance. People eat whatever grows near them and that’s it. One photo I saw was of an elaborate table. You could sit about ten people round it. The table was a tea making machine. A few strips of bamboo were hooked up to an inlet and brought mountain spring water into the table. Most of the water would trickle out and continue down the mountain, unsure of why it had been put through the bother, but when you turned a little handle, the water would be diverted around a spaghetti of pipes and on towards the bowels of the table. It would slip and slide through channels lined with fresh tea leaves and elements gradually heating it up as it travelled. Turn one of the eight little taps under the table edge and you have a steaming cup of the freshest tea. So, the fine people from Okinawa told me how you could eat perfectly well and get everything a body needs. And you didn't need meat or anything processed to do it. My first culinary casualties. I also learned that my whole eating schedule had been wrong all my life. The best way to do it is to eat small but eat often. I'd been so proud of myself some days when I was too busy to eat anything and had six tons of dinner at about 9pm. Wrong. The body is a sensitive little baby. If it doesn't get fed often enough it throws its toys out the pram and truly believes it’s starving. It then converts what you do eat into fat, sensible storage for a rainy day when maybe you do starve. How a brain can fail to tell a body that it’s ok, no-one's going to starve is beyond me but apparently it does. So, by the time I'd showered and got ready to see what this former bastion of the Roman empire had going for it, I had successfully mapped out my new diet. And it was all the stuff I like to eat anyway. I'd start with some fruit, in deference to the first successful morning. Then give it a couple of hours and a little low fat cottage cheese on a wholewheat crispbread, and a few crushed walnuts sprinkled on it. Before what was probably the main mini meal of the day, about two o'clock, it was exercise. My wife’s brother had told me the body prefers to exercise then eat as it’s still burning, rather than the other way round. Maybe A little tuna steak with bok choy, a bit of spinach, greek yoghurt and some kidney beans or chickpeas. Amazing things chickpeas, fibre and protein all in one little pill. It wasn't a problem designing these mini meals, the problem was there was too much choice. If you're going to have pasta, have wholewheat pasta. If you're going to have rice, have wild rice or brown rice and not too much of either. Your 5 or 7 a day is so easy to achieve and better. Let your milk be zero fat milk, let your greens be asparagus, broccoli, kale, spinach, artichoke, sprouts and bok choy. Eat nuts, almonds, walnuts. Eat pulses. Kidney beans, chickpeas. Prefer fruits of the forest over others, raspberries, blackberries and the like. Loads of antioxidants. And let your booze be anything but beer, predominantly white wine and a glass of red a day comes straight from the doc. All the stuff I already knew. Lettuce, peppers, tomatoes, celery, onion, garlic. Jesus I could do a meal planner for a month without getting bored. This was going to be tasty. I could still love my food but carry that aloof grin that comes with a man shedding timber and having fun doing it. I'd know exactly how many calories came with each mini meal and how much exercise to do to burn them off. The laptop was closed up and my phone map and I set off to explore Pamplona. The city is called Iruna in the native Basque language and there was an ever-present but subtle show of the independence from Spain the Basque people had been after for a long time. Basque flags were draped over balconies and stuck on cars but a local told me, do not take a flag out in public or you’d get carted off. One local comedian had added a bit of graffiti to a low wall, poorly translated as “Anything but a free state is just a load of bulls.” Back in the hotel room, I tackled the exercise aspects. Swimming would always figure, especially in Spain, but what else? Running can be high impact, shin splints and the like. It would be rowing. It’s got everything, loads of muscles getting tickled gently, great cardio and hang on here we go, I can get a machine for the house for a couple of hundred euros. I'd join a kayak club or some such but winter was on its way and even the Spanish winter doesn't lend itself to being in the sea. And that was it, a meal for all moods and occasions and an all year round exercise regime. When it was too cold to swim, double up on the rowing. Just make sure you get in some form of water as soon as you finish exercising to loosen up your muscles. I also learned how little anyone should need a gym (apart from my little rowing machine of course). We really do have everything we need around the house. First of all, a running machine? What? Just run around the block. If you want to run uphill, run uphill. Muscle tone is also important. If you’re shedding tonnage, you want the tonnage that’s left nice and tight. Push ups, pull ups, weights, dips, pec toning, ab toning and your core. You can pull up on anything, a couple of chairs, backs together, get your balance and you’re away. Climb something. I'd start slow. An hour on the rowing machine, weights and core stuff and finally fifteen minutes of laps in the pool. It was all mapped out. That evening, I sat down in a little restaurant I’d spied earlier, down some steps to a little square, live jazz music in the middle. The menu didn’t have much of the stuff I needed and I’d definitely give the “grosse crevette” and “assaulted pasta” a swerve. I wondered if this would be a problem going forward. I remembered many menus and I wasn’t sure many of them were fit for my new purpose. But then I saw the celery and walnut salad. Fine, little glass of chablis to go along and everything was still on track. Part 3 > Execution The next day around four o'clock, I arrived at my final destination. A little town called Javea, a hundred kilometres south of Valencia. Look at Spain. There’s a little nose about two thirds down the east coast. Tip of that nose. That’s us, pressed against the sea by the mountains. It felt like its own little island. First priority after wandering around was the supermarket. Go get the super foods. My place was in Cabo la Nao right up on the point near the lighthouse. My mission hadn’t been created when I booked it, but with my new mission head on, the remoteness of my location would be a good thing. When I went outside to get back in my car, I was reminded it had just carried me from London to south east Spain. Over those 1800 miles, the front of the car had accumulated a second skin of unfortunate insects. Insects of all shapes, colours and sizes had become one single cloak of wonder food for any bird that took a fancy. And they did. A feeding frenzy was underway and even this one approaching human and a mystery cat that seemed to appear from nowhere couldn’t scare them off. They each had an allocated section of bodywork to pick at and they did well but still couldn’t get it all off. The earlier casualties were part bug, part Audi. The nearest supermarket was down in the Cala Blanca bit and was called Consum. It was the strangest supermarket shop I'd ever done. A hundred euros of good healthy stuff. I'd never put walnuts in a shopping cart. But I carried the same internal smugness of someone whose every passing minute is making them healthier than everyone else. It was a hot day and I knew if I didn't get it all fridged up quick smart, for the whole six months here, there would be a sea bass, salmon, octopus and monkfish essence in my car. The pool was warm enough not to have to thrash around like a perishing salmon and it was my first test of where I was fitness-wise. It was a fifteen metre pool. Breaststroke was the best all round stroke for what I was after so I took off up and down. I'd have to do this for at least 30 minutes every day so how close was I? I managed about 15 minutes and thought it was a good start for day one. My own salmon was ready to go under the grill and I was hungry. Baby steps. The house and garden had to provide me with my makeshift gym. Soon, I had two sturdy wooden outside chairs back to back for pull ups, a couple of buckets from the gardener’s shed filled with pool water. The rest would need no props. The push ups over there next to the pool and that little wall would do the ab stuff. Suspend myself on it and hold myself there for ten seconds, ten second break, repeat until knackered. I had a little go at all my disciplines. The props held up just fine and my routine was set. There was only one thing missing and it would be the majority of my cardio workout. The rowing machine. In five days time, it would be on my doorstep. I carried on with my eating regime and stepped up the swimming and workout aspects and on day five, the rowing machine arrived. It was lovely and orange and it went right where I hoped it would, between two columns on the terrace. Then I suddenly realised, apart from the supermarket on day one, I hadn't been out yet. The days had been formed around my mini meals and exercise and going out didn't sound as healthy as staying in. But I had to prove to myself I could carry on the mission in or out. That night, I did go out, met some nice folks, Lee and Tracey from Southend and a drummer called Hector, saw a band and drank white wine and had lubina a la plancha, grilled sea bass, asparagus and a few slices of grilled aubergine, every so slight drizzle of local honey. My taxi got me home at a reasonable hour and I got out without that heavy feeling I’d get when I went out back home. Always too much beer and always too much red meat. I took a quick stroll round my makeshift gym and my new rowing machine and then slept better than I had for ages. Tomorrow, a full programme for the first time. The rowing machine soon got me sweating. The readout was like trying to wish away the miles in the car, watching calorie after calorie clock away, minute after minute. The machine was fine, nice and easy, smooth strokes, keep your back straight. Pretty soon I'd done my hour and I took a break for water. The weights and pull up and everything else was becoming faster and I was doing more of them. By the time I got into the pool, I was feeling muscle burn and my heart felt reawoken. With the help of a great little tool called Supertracker, I had it all mapped out. Today I would eat 1200 calories and burn off 2000. And so it was for the next couple of weeks. The cats started popping in to see what this strange noise was an hour every day and soon they stuck around for some cheeky tuna and I had one or two pusscats to talk to while I worked out. The hour a day on the rower needed a bit more entertainment than the readout. By now I knew my pace and you just have to finish the hour come what may. Being in my own head was amusing enough but I needed a bit more autopilot. The laptop was enlisted to provide comedy shows and every so often, this Spanish course I was taking. The hour started to go by like the missing time I'd felt in La Roche Sur Yon. I was doing more miles to the hour, I was doing more laps in the pool and I was looking forward to every stage more and more. Pretty soon though, the pool became unswimmable so I got a wetsuit but that only really extended it a few weeks. My regime changed and I doubled up on the rowing. My daily meal plans were sometimes not planned, just cobble together the right food groups in the right quantities. Some of the taste combos were worth jotting down, others didn't really work but still, the scales in the bathroom were starting to show results. I'd got down to 100 kilos from 108 in the first 3 weeks. I couldn't believe the progress. I was never hungry, I felt great and the pounds were escaping with ease. I'd have this done in a few more weeks. I started a weight chart and logged as much as I could, something to be proud of. Then the rate of weight loss slowed. I checked the scales. How could doing exactly the same thing every day cause a different result? I changed the scales so that it seemed more of a dramatic reduction. A bit more research told me the scales were fine, the programme was fine. It’s just the first bit of weight drops off you because you're reducing your water retention. After that, you work just as hard for half the initial result. And don't forget, the programme is increasing muscle mass as well, which weighs more than fat. That's fine. So be it. This was the realistic rate. Months not weeks. And I was enjoying it. I was enjoying succeeding, winning. This wasn't so hard. A couple more weeks went past and still the pounds tumbled. Sometimes the reductions were erratic, same programme, 2 pounds off one day, half a pound off the next. I didn't really need to know why as long as the weight kept dropping. The thing was, I had been looking at myself in the full length mirror by the door every day after my workout before the shower and I still didn't look any different. I knew all the machinery and logic associated with my mission couldn’t all be wrong at the same time so I was pretty sure there would be a decent reason for it and so there was. What you’re doing initially is sorting out your core. That’s where you’re losing the initial weight and water. Your core is what’s getting beefed up and fit, out of sight. It made sense enough to a layman but you still like to see changes. And then it happened. My jeans had been feeling a little looser than normal for a few days and then I realised I needed the belt in another hole. There it was, the first sign. I couldn't confirm it from the mirror but this was incontrovertible. Maybe it was something psychosomatic in my head showing me something, but soon after that, I started to see some definition around my middle, not so much abs per se, just prepping the ground for them. The pounds kept shedding off my weight chart. I will freely admit, I did have one or two blowouts, the need for a kebab and a cold beer, and I knew the numbers would show it, but I was now not actually fitting into trousers and shorts and some shirts looked like nightdresses. I needed healthy persons clothes. I have never felt so happy about an impending cost. I looked good, like I did in my 30s. By the time four months had passed, my target of 80 kilos remained and I was only a couple off at 82. I had two months to drop that and I knew I would. I looked at photos of me in london 6 months before and it was incredible. I looked like a different person altogether. I looked tired, heavy, dreading the next flight of stairs. Warning. This is a pivotal moment. When you’re ahead of the curve and bossing it, its easy to entertain the notion that you can ease off a bit. Physically, you’re probably right but don't do it. It changes your mindset from achieving something to already having achieved it but it’s not yet achieved. Rabbit and the hare. Achieve it first, then reward yourself with easing off. I hit my 80 kilos with five weeks to go and the next five weeks kept me there. It was done. I'd smashed the shit out that 25%. It was gone. I took off from Valencia and landed at Gatwick requiring second glances at my passport photo. Yes, folks that really is me, just an awful lot more of me. By the time I wandered down the street to the pub, I'd already decided I wasn’t going back to the UK for good. Spain was my home now. My mission, my new life was born on the French highways and realised in the Spanish mountains. I wasn't even really thinking of the reaction I’d get when I walked in. I didn’t need reactions. I knew what I’d done. Me and my water buckets, pussycats, rowing machines, the glorious island of Okinawa and singing, dancing Spain. The reaction was complete astonishment. Not just someone telling you you look well. This was holy **** across the board. My choice of a pink leather coat to mark the occasion drew its own conclusion but I was stronger and fitter and more vibrant in mind and body. And I looked it and we all knew it. Life’s new plateau had been reached with a simple regard for my own well being. A respect for my only asset. And it was simple, inspiring and very enjoyable.
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Best Boyfriend You’ve Never Had (Bucky x Reader)- Part 6
Summary: You and Bucky share a moment that completely affects your mindset, Bucky tries a pumpkin spice latte for the first time, and an unexpected visitor from your past may spell some trouble for the future...
Characters: Bucky Barnes, Reader, OFC Trish, OFC Catherine, OMC Thomas, {OMC Brandon, OMC Jesse, OMC Ben, OMC Mike, OMC Max}- mentioned, OMC Ryan
Warnings: angst, self-doubt, conflicting thoughts, maybe a few swears
Word Count: 3343
A/N: This took so long, I am soo sorry! Please enjoy, lovelies!
Masterlist
Part 5 (Previous) / Part 7
*not my gif, credit goes to the rightful owner*
Drumroll.
The moment seemed to last forever, the drumroll just rolling and rolling and rolling. However, instead of the giddiness and anticipation you should have been feeling, you only felt the crushing pressure welling up in your chest, every expectation and thought that had flown through your mind when it came to Bucky now whirling around like a rampant flurry in your head. It was too much, too much pressure for it to be perfect, too much pressure for it to lead to more, too much pressure for you to meet all of his own expectations. It was just too much.
Almost as if an electric shock had sparked between the two of you, you and Bucky sprang apart in almost perfect unison, both panting hard. “I’m sorry, Bucky, it’s too much pressure,” you started, but Bucky spoke at the same time as you.
“This is too intense!” You both met each other’s eyes, suddenly breaking into chuckles of relief. “So I’m not crazy for feeling like my brain is about to explode from the pressure?” Bucky gave you an apologetic grin. You pushed your hair out of your face, shaking your head.
“No, that was insane. It was just too much, y’know?” Bucky nodded in agreement. You ran your hands over your face.
“How about this,” the brunette started. “What if we just do it really quickly? Like a quick peck or something to get rid of the pressure?” You barked out a laugh.
“Like ripping off a Band-Aid?”
“Like ripping off a Band-Aid,” he agreed. “And then the pressure of the first kiss is gone, ‘cause we already had one. Don’t get me wrong, doll, I really want to kiss ya, but I want it to be easy and without pressure. I want it to be great.” A deep flush spread through your cheeks.
“Well, you certainly are a dedicated fake boyfriend.” You whispered it more to remind yourself that it was all for show, but it still reached Bucky’s ears. He spread a smile across his cheeks.
“Only the best for my girl,” he replied. You shook your head to clear your thoughts.
“Okay, let’s do this. We’ll do a quick kiss on the count of three. But maybe we just need to do more couple-y things, get into the swing of it first, before we can kiss more naturally. How about tomorrow we have a date-day. Go out in the city, get coffee, lunch, go shopping or something.”
Bucky nodded. “Sounds like a plan. Okay, here we go,” he placed his hands on your waist, taking a big breath and shimmying. You laughed.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting the ants outta my pants, let’s go.” You mouthed out an amused ‘okay’ at his initiative. “One,” he started.
“Two,” you continued.
“Three,” he finished, and the two of you swooped forward, meeting brilliantly with teeth on lips and noses knocking together. The two of you groaned in pain, hands flying to sore mouths. You felt shock shake through you. You’d expected something fleeting, too quick to remember, maybe a little chaste. This was worse than any first kiss you’d imagined with Bucky. “Oh, my God. That was the worst kiss I’ve ever given,” Bucky whispered. You chuckled. He composed himself again. “Retry.”
You shook your head in amusement, preparing yourself again.
“One, two, three.” You both leaned forward again, only to knock foreheads. “What the fuck?!” Bucky groaned out. “I’m sorry, doll, I swear that I can do better, I guess I’m just more nervous than I thought,” the blue-eyed soldier shook his head, an embarrassed smile gracing his lips. You put a hand on his arm.
“Don’t worry about it, Buck. I think you’re putting too much pressure on yourself. I’m nervous too.” You felt a surge of courage swell in your chest, and you took a leap. “Close your eyes.”
“What?”
“Just do it, Barnes.”
He chuckled, and his icy blue eyes disappeared under his long dark lashes as he closed his lids. You took a deep breath, placing a hand on his cheek and the other on his chest. Before you could talk yourself out of it, you leaned forward, closing your own eyes in the process.
Your lips met his in a gentle embrace, and in the moment you realized how long it had been since you’d kissed someone. You forgot how inexplicably wonderful it was, feeling soft lips moving against your own, sharing a breath, a thought, a moment frozen in time. You squeezed your eyes tighter shut before breaking away, feeling a rush of adrenaline shoot through your veins at your sudden boldness. Your lips still tingled with the feel of Bucky’s lips ghosted over yours, the slight scratch of his stubble and the press of his nose against your cheek. While the kiss had been unlike any you’d had before, the best part was immediately after, seeing Bucky’s lips slightly parted and eyes still closed in a daze. He was still leaning forward, and his hands were still on your waist, holding you as if he never wanted to let go.
You watched Bucky in anticipation, suddenly terrified that the kiss hadn’t been as beautiful for him as it had for you. “Wow…” he whispered. “I think you’re a lot better at this than I am, doll.” You breathed out a laugh, resting your head against his chest. “I definitely think that I’ll need some more practice.” You smacked his arm, laughing at your best friend as he circled his arms around you. “Okay,” he sighed. “I think this has been enough intensity for one day. What do you say we get settled in bed and watch a movie?” You smiled up at him.
“Sounds like a plan, Bucky-O-Boy.” As Bucky went to change in the bathroom across the hall, you replayed the kiss again in your head. You could feel yourself flushing, a giddy smile undying on your features as your fingers ghosted over your lips. Oh God, if you weren’t in deep before, you were six feet under by now.
“So, m’lady, where to on this fine day?” You hooked an arm with Bucky’s, strolling down the main streets of your hometown.
“Well, this is downtown from where I lived, so I didn’t come here too often growing up since it was such a hassle, but there is one café I always loved to visit when I was in this part of the city. They’ve got these unbelievable pastries, Bucky, you won’t believe it.” Your eyes took in the bustling downtown area around you as you spoke, feeling as though while it had obviously changed, the atmosphere was still as lively as ever. “And their hot chocolate is just to die for. Their coffee’s great too, but I’ve always personally been more of a chocolate fan. Anyways, we can go there for lunch- they had a really good tomato spinach panini sandwich when I still lived here, hopefully they still have them.” Bucky combed his gloved fingers through his hair, ruffling it a bit before tucking the loose strands behind his ear.
“That sounds great, doll. Lead me away.”
The café was still tucked in the small corner it had always been, between a bookstore and what had once been an antique store but was now a wedding dress shop, go figure. You snorted at the café’s new neighbour, walking up to the door. Bucky reached for the brass handle and pulled it open, jingling a bell inside. You thanked him as he stepped back and allowed you to enter first. When you first stepped in, your senses were comforted by the aroma of ground coffee beans and fresh baked pastries, the soft and calm chatter of patrons filling the atmosphere with a comforting separation from the busy streets outside. You and Bucky waited behind a short, stout woman who was ordering in front of you. Your eyes scanned the menu board above the counter, neat handwriting listing different beverages both hot and cold, sandwiches and desserts galore. Your attention was immediately drawn to their famous tomato spinach panini, which was now available with mozzarella cheese, which had you nearly salivating. You turned to Bucky, who was still expressively reading the menu, eyebrows shooting up in interest at certain options and furrowing at others.
He leaned towards you, frowning in confusion. “What’s a pumpkin spice latte?” He asked quietly, as if embarrassed that he didn’t know. You rubbed his arm absentmindedly as you explained.
“It’s a latte- espresso and steamed milk- that’s flavored with different spices that give it a fall-type pumpkin-y taste. Like cinnamon, nutmeg, so and so, and it’s topped with whipped cream and pumpkin purée. It’s a classic fall drink, everyone goes crazy for them because they’re seasonal. Unfortunately, it’s come to be branded a ‘white-girl drink’ which ruins the enjoyment of them because they’ve become so basic.”
Bucky pondered this information, shrugging. “I can be a basic white girl.” You burst out laughing, clutching your chest and stomach.
“Oh, you sweet smol bean, of course you can.” The till opened for you to order, and Bucky once again stepped back to let you order first. You smiled graciously and approached the counter, ordering a hot chocolate and tomato spinach panini with mozzarella cheese. Bucky then stepped up behind you.
“Hi, could I please have a pumpkin spice latte, a bacon tomato sandwich and a bear claw? Thank you.” You opened your wallet to pay when Bucky gasped dramatically and plucked the cash from your hand, shoving it back in your purse.
“What the hell are you doing? I’m treating my girl to lunch, that doesn’t really work very well when she thinks she’s gonna pay.” He took out his own wallet and handed the barista his money, dropping the change in the tips jar without a second thought. “Jeez, (Y/N), you’re gonna make me look bad here.”
You rolled your eyes, but you felt your heart flutter at his action- however minimal, it was very chivalrous. You found a table by the window and sat down, eagerly watching Bucky in anticipation. He raised an eyebrow at you. “What? Something on my face, doll? Because the last time I ate was at brunch this morning with your family, so if you’ve been letting me walk around like a jackass with syrup on my face all morning-“ you shook your head, laughing.
“No, I want to see your reaction when you try a PSL.” You made a goofy face as you used the slang ironically.
Bucky froze. “P-S-L?” He sounded out each letter, incredulous. “What the hell is that?”
“A pumpkin spice latte, dumbass. It’s what all the basic white girls call it, and if you’re gonna be basic, you gotta call it by its basic name.” The blue eyed soldier narrowed his eyes at you.
“Saying I’m getting a PSL sounds like I’m undergoing an invasive medical procedure. I’m drinking a pumpkin spice latte, not getting a lobotomy.” You pursed your lips and gestured for him to taste it. He rolled his eyes and brought the cup to his lips, sniffing it before taking a cautious sip. He smacked his lips tastefully a few times, as if tasting an aged wine, and then his faux-concentrating expression melted away into incredulity. “It’s like fall threw up in my mouth,” he said in disbelief, taking another sip. You laughed.
“So you like it?”
“Doll, I don’t even know, but I can’t stop drinking it.” You watched fondly as he took a deep sip, disregarding its hot temperature, and set it back down, revealing a frothy whipped cream moustache coating his upper lip and the tip of his nose. You chuckled, and his attention was turned to you. “What now?”
“Now you really do have something on your face, soldier,” you quipped. He groaned and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, removing most of the whipped cream save for the bit on his nose. You gestured to your own nose to show him where it still was, and he wiped just under it. You shook your head. “Here, may I?” He simply nodded, and you cupped the side of his face, swiping your thumb across the tip of his nose, wiping off the remaining whipped cream. You wiped off your thumb and took a sip of your hot chocolate before digging into your sandwich, completely oblivious to the adoring look in Bucky’s baby blue eyes.
Over the next week, you and Bucky went on outings every day, exploring different parts of the city. Bucky was never less than a gentleman, holding open doors, pulling out chairs, and always keeping an arm around you in the more questionable parts of town despite your familiarity with them. With each outing, you saw a different part of Bucky, like the cuts of a diamond, which all fit together perfectly to expose the man you now knew you loved. You couldn’t help it, no matter how hard you tried to convince yourself it was just the wedding messing with your brain. But that excuse didn’t work too well considering the trip had only confirmed the feelings you’d already had festering inside since the day you’d met the blue-eyed brunette. His face showed more expression and feeling than you’d ever seen as you showed him the parts of the city that reflected who you were, and you saw more and more of the bright-eyed, free-spirited boy Steve had known him as before the ice.
Every time you closed your eyes, you experienced that kiss you’d shared in your room over and over again, and every time, all you felt was a comforting warmth you’d never known before, spreading through your veins right down to your toes. You wanted to kiss him again, so bad, just to see if there really had been a spark or if you had imagined it after building it up so much in your mind. You hadn’t kissed since then, but every now and then Bucky would plant a soft kiss in your hair or on your cheek while around your family.
(just to keep up the ruse)
(don’t get any ideas, (y/n/n) this is all just for show for him)
In the week leading up to your sister’s wedding, you were busier than ever helping her prepare, which meant you rarely had Bucky to yourself after lunch and before 7 in the evening. But he had settled in quite nicely with your family, getting on well with your father and Thomas. The three of them were often off doing “man bonding or whatever,” as your father so endearingly called it. Usually playing darts or pool in the garage- your dad’s man cave, working on your father’s ancient motorcycle, or helping Thomas finish some of the errands Catherine had assigned him. Thomas’s groomsmen, whom you’d met at brunch at the beginning of your visit, consisted of his three brothers, cousin and best friend, and were all nice enough but rambunctious as ever when together.
Bucky seemed to be slightly more wary of this group, often sticking closer to your side when you were all together. You caught on after the first few times he had done this, and you had a good idea as to why. Thomas’ younger twin brothers, Brandon and Jesse, were still very much bachelors and were quite the pranksters. However, the eldest brother, Ben, was happily married and every inch the father-figure of the family, and Thomas’ best friend Max had been around since they were kids, so they were quite good at keeping the twins in line. The wild card was the cousin, Mike, who was not only the instigator of many of the twins’ shenanigans, but was a playboy to boot.
It was hard to miss the way Bucky’s metal arm found its way around your waist whenever Mike was around, the way he’d shuffle his vibranium digits to catch the light and remind Mike to back off when he was being a little too charming with you. You, of course, thought it was hilarious the way Mike’s eyes would shift from smug to uneasy whenever the dark haired soldier did this, but you also found it intriguing that Bucky was acting this way in the first place. Mike’s flirting was harmless; Thomas had assured you that while he was naturally inclined to playfully flirt, it wasn’t serious and he respected that you were with Bucky. You had to give Buck props though, he was really killing the whole ‘jealous boyfriend’ thing. Last week’s ‘dates’ had certainly paid off for getting the fake relationship down to a T. This thought occurred to you with a fleeting reminder of the impermanence of this arrangement.
At this point, you were in so deep with these impossibly consuming feelings for Bucky that you longed for the end of the wedding. It was torture to be so close to him with that glass wall still keeping him out of your reach, a cruel reminder that for him it was still all for show. It wasn’t fun and games for you anymore, but you knew it was your fault in the first place. You never should have let your feelings for him get this far. You should have nipped it in the bud and conditioned yourself to see him as only your friend from the beginning. Now, here you were, faking yet another laugh as your father recounted a childhood memory to your family around the dinner table, Bucky’s warm and calloused hand gripping yours on the table between your dinner plates. How could his touch burn agonizingly hot and be so freezing cold at the same time?
The wedding was in two days, and all you could think about as you watched the blue eyed soldier take a sip of his water was how wonderful those lips had felt on your own last week. You chastised yourself. Why couldn’t you just let it go? It had been nothing but practice for Bucky, an exercise to really nail this fake relationship front. It was probably a distant memory in his mind by now, but for you it was the only thought in your head. You cleared your throat quietly as you took another bite of the lasagna you had helped your mother make that evening.
Your brain hurt
(two more days)
nearly as much as your heart, but you shoved it down and kept up your smile.
The doorbell rang as you all started cleaning up after dinner, and you sprang up from your seat to go answer it. “Oh, I think that’s Thomas’s friend from college, he said he’d be stopping by to say hi tonight,” Catherine called from the kitchen.
You unlocked the door and pulled it open, only to have the wind knocked out of you at who stood on the front porch. The bright hazel eyes, light freckles dancing across a soft-sculpted nose. It took you a moment to process the sight before you, having been certain you’d never see him again after the incident all those years ago.
“Ryan?” You breathed out. The man’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, full lips forming a hint of a smile.
“(Y/N), I didn’t expect to see you here. Thomas didn’t mention you were in town…” He let out a soft, hesitant laugh, almost apologetic, as if he were still apprehensive around you after all those years. “You look really beautiful. Well, you still do, you always did.”
You had no idea how to react to this. Here, standing in front of you, was the last man you had ever considered yourself to love.
(look how well that turned out)
The man who, right now, deserved a door in the face, if not more. But you steeled your expression, straightening your shoulders.
“Hi, Ryan. It’s been a while. Yeah, I flew in last week. It is my sister’s wedding after all. I didn’t know you knew Thomas.”
Ryan nodded, a few strands of light brown hair falling against his forehead. “Yeah, we went to college together. What a small world.”
What a small world indeed.
Part 5 / Part 7
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Brace yourselves A very long essay (like, a thesis) on the British class system with references to Harry Potter Part 2
Let’s continue. Have another comedy clip showcasing how stupid the upper-class is meant to be, to get you going:
youtube
A side point: almost all the British actors celebrated by Tumblr went to private or public school and are upper-class, or upper middle-class.Here’s a buzzfeed quiz to give your brain bracing time for part 2. I got it right for the exact same reason the top commenter did! Have a look once you’ve done it! That’s another blog post in itself!
https://www.buzzfeed.com/hattiesoykan/which-of-these-british-actors-didnt-go-to-a-private-school?utm_term=.ylwEEKxnDN#.mfyBBg7oQx
Food and diet
As I mentioned in my post about food in Harry Potter, food is intricately bound up with class. Working-class people have tradtionally had a poor diet, through poverty and lack of education, and also because of the impact of the Second World War, when food was very scarce. Where I am from people were still dying of malnutrition when my dad was teenager, so in the late 1960s. Working-class people then used to cook with beef dripping as they couldn’t afford other fats, and everyone on his street shared the same pan of dripping. I am from a former industrial town with two-up, two-down terraced workers’ houses, just like Snape, so we can assume that when Snape was a child he experienced similar levels of malnutrition around him.
Things are much better now, but in the last century people used to grow a lot of their own food if they had outdoor space, steal or not eat. They could afford to buy very little and then only the cheapest foods, which are often the least nutritious. It meant that they didn’t eat big or regular meals and that there was very little variety in their diets, and no treats. JKR has a story about trying to buy a tin of baked beans, and nothing else, from the supermarket, for her daughter’s meal, and having to put it back because she didn’t have enough money. Then, tins of beans were like 10p.
When my parents were at school, all kids used to get a small carton of milk for free at breaktime to make sure they were getting enough calcium. In the 70s, Thatcher (may she rot in hell) was education secretary (this was before she was prime minister) and she stopped the milk provision, which meant that many working-class kids stopped getting a key part of their nutrition. She was too disconnected from working-class people to understand, or care, that she was taking away critical nutrition. It was a political and social scandal and she got the nickname ‘Thatcher the milk snatcher’.
Best ever comment about that evil bitch is from the comedian Frankie Boyle, who had much to say about her, but the best was on the subject of her funeral: “give everyone is Scotland a shovel and we’ll dig a hole so deep we’ll deliver her to satan personally.”
Since we don’t finish school here until after 3, schools provide a lunch, which most people have to pay for (or you can take your own). The canteens in secondary schools are usually far too small and, certainly until very recently, when Jamie Oliver started a war on school food, served repetitive, low nutrient, processed rubbish. Until the turn of the century you would be lucky to get anything other than hot dogs, turkey twizzlers, chicken nuggets, chips and pizza, and when I say pizza, I mean a square chunk of dense bread with cheese and tomato purée on it. And cake. Now schools usually do at least pasta, salad and sandwiches as well. The main problem is budget. These schools are state-maintained and are given an allowance to spend on each thing. When Jamie Oliver started his campaign against poor quality school food, the school he worked with had a budget of 13p for every child. The ‘better’ the school the better the food: public schools, whose budget comes from fees, serve the kind of food Hogwarts did. Some kids, i.e. those from very low income families, are allowed a free school meal, and for many it is their only meal of the day, even now. I work in a working-class school and trust me, at least half never get a breakfast, and many have a sandwich for the evening meal. I know one boy who is given a Nutella sandwich every evening and that is all. Theresa May, who is a wannabe Thatcher, just announced recently that she is thinking of scrapping the free school meals program. It would be a disaster for the poorest kids.
Buying cheap food isn’t the only issue. Since working-class people work so much they are too tired and busy to cook proper meals, so they often settle for ready-meals, fast-food and takeaways. Lack of education has an impact as well. People eat food for taste and convenience alone, not fully grasping that they need to eat certain things to be healthy, and as a result many go under-nourished or become obese.
There is also the issue of how to cook things – not just in terms of lack of education, but in lack of facilities. Some people don’t have a hob, or an oven, maybe even just a microwave.
Hydration is an issue as well. A lot of working-class people don’t realise how much water they need to drink to be healthy, so they are dehydrated, and their kids are as well, so they don’t have very good concentration, so they don’t do as well at school, and the cycle of lack of education continues.
Middle and upper-class people have the money, time and mental space to buy and make, or have made for them, varied, healthy foods. They have the education to eat and drink the right things. This means they are healthy and can concentrate at school or at other things and become successful.
Housing and class
Where you live is defined by, and indicative of, class. I am simplifying here, but in a nutshell, the north of England and a lot of Scotland and Wales is predominantly working-class. The further south you go, the higher the dominant class. This is because it was in the north that mills and factories were built in the Industrial Revolution, and because coal mines were up here. Many towns were built purposely to house workers of a certain factory, mill or mine. They all look the same, just with different bricks: terraced rows of small, dark houses with 2 rooms upstairs and 2 downstairs. Many have since been extended by owners to include an indoor bathroom, which would originally have been outside in an outhouse. A few people still had outdoor toilets in the 90s. The film Billy Elliot is an excellent overview of such towns and housing. If you haven’t seen it and you are interested in class, you should definitely watch it. Later on, social housing was built in the form of semi-detached houses and large blocks of flats, but detached houses have only recently become a thing for anyone other than the upper-class.
Working-class people end up living in the worst housing. Many of them rent rather than own, and that’s not as good here as in the rest of Europe. Tenants don’t have many rights and there is little regulation on landlords. Many people, right now, are living in slum housing. I am talking no flooring, unpainted walls, no heating, filth everywhere. You can either rent from a private landlord, who can do as little as he likes to make you comfortable, pretty much, or you can rent from your local council. Council housing is usually either semi-detached houses or in bigger cities flats in large blocks. The abysmal state of blocks of flats has recently been all over the news in the form of the Grenfell Tower block fire, where many people died and have had to be rehomed, simply because cheap cladding had been used on the outside of the building and the fire travelled up it like it was tissue paper. Many blocks have this same cladding on. The residents there had complained about safety many times but had been ignored. To make matters worse, there is a serious shortage of council housing across the country because fucking Thatcher (again) introduced a scheme where council tenants could buy their home if they lived in it for so long, and they could buy it for a crazily cheap price. Loads of people took advantage of it by buying their home for next to nothing, waiting a few years then selling it on for a massive profit, but of course that meant all the fucking social housing disappeared. My sister-in-law got divorced around 12 years ago and she went to the council to put her name on the list to get somewhere to live and the list was so long it took 5 years to offer her anything, and then it was the shittiest house imaginable, because that’s all they’ve got left.
They also ruin what little housing is left by a) putting loads of criminals and drug dealers etc in one place, so you end up with some estate from hell and b) putting foreign immigrants all in one place, so you end up with people who came here for asylum from either side of a civil war living next to each other, or ghettoising them so that they are abandoned and lost.
In Scotland working-class housing was, until very recently, tenement buildings, which were sort of communal flats. Families had their own rooms but had to share some of them. The stairs and communal areas were like something out of a Victorian workhouse. Slums. Here are some pictures, with info, of working-class housing in Glasgow between the 40s and 60s. Glasgow is especially woeful. I actually love the place, but there’s no denying it has been hell on earth for much of its history. I remember doing a geography project at school (mid 90s) and discovering that the life expectancy in the most working-class part of Glasgow was 54. It has gone up since, but is still below the national average: all the factors I have discussed combine to literally knock years off people’s lives.
https://www.buzzfeed.com/hilarywardle/glasgow-housing-crisis?utm_term=.apNOODpKkJ#.wn3BBNXxK4
Regarding the rows of terraces built to house industrial workers I mentioned earlier, this is exactly the sort of place Snape grew up. Here’s an example. They would have had a sitting room and kitchen downstairs and 2 bedrooms upstairs, with an outside toilet, while he was a child, and certainly no plumbed in bath or shower.
Upper-class people live in detached houses, usually historic ones like castles and former estates. They usually have multiple houses.
Middle-class housing is varied depending on whereabouts on the continuum people are. It ranges from townhouses, to large, nicer semi-detached houses, to detached houses to mansions. A key point I want to make here is that it is totally normal to have the lowliest of working-class housing, such as in the picture, and then a few minutes’ walk away, a middle-class area. Upper-class housing is always considerably separate from the other two, but working and middle are near each other. I saw a ridiculous post a few weeks ago claiming that Lily must have been poor because she lived close enough to Snape that Petunia knew who he was, but that is utter rubbish – that person can’t have been British. Nearly all towns have slummy areas and middle-class areas, and our towns are small. Also, he was doing that accidental wandless magic kids do, so no doubt he had a reputation for being a weirdo.
The mere fact that Petunia criticises Snape’s clothes proves beyond doubt that she wasn’t working-class, as in those days, everybody working-class was wearing hand-me-down clothes like that, therefore another “poor” person wouldn’t have noticed/mentioned. The punk movement’s fashion of safety pins in the 70s came about due to the simple fact that the working-class were wearing such old clothes that they were falling apart and they could only fix them with safety pins. As Johnny Rotten of the Sex Pistols said, “we had to use them – the arse was hanging off your jeans so you just had to shove a few safety pins in it.” So Petunia wasn’t poor or she would have empathised with Snape, not criticised him.
It crops up everywhere and all the time
By complete coincidence yesterday I saw a review on Amazon that completely illustrates how notions of class pervade our conscious in Britain. It was a review for a book about Freud and feminism, an academic work. It was the only negative review amongst quite a few positive ones. I’ll let you read it then I’ll discuss:
I bought a copy for a penny on Amazon and that was over spending. I have worked in the mental health field for over thirty years and have trained as a psychotherapist and am very well acquainted with Freud's work. I was shocked by how badly this author described his ideas. If I didn't already know what she was talking about I wouldn't have had a clue about what she was saying. She really seems to be someone who wants to make a somewhat complicated subject even more complicated. I stopped at the end of her second chapter as I just couldn't take anymore. I wouldn't describe her as providing the reader with an explanation, in fact one could be forgiven for viewing her writing as an attempt at deliberate confusion or if not confusion an attempt to make what Freud had written about sexuality as even more difficult to understand than it was. Perhaps I shouldn't be so surprised by this. The author is essentially taking a Lacanian position towards Freud, a position that upper middle class complicated academics have taken up. Unfortunately these are people who really don't want to accept what Freud actually wrote and instead want to impose on his writings their own wishes for what they would have preferred him to write i.e. that the unconscious is structured like a language and that word representations exist at this level, despite Freud's own writing that this isn't so. What amuses me is that author purports to be a Marxist. Given the way she writes it's clear enough that she wants to keep the uneducated working class at quite a distance. This book is in my opinion pretentious upper middle class trash. I'm giving my copy to Oxfam.
Firstly, the fact that it’s a stream of consciousness rant should tell you enough to know that it’s not trustworthy. The most important thing, though, is the linking of academic analysis with being upper middle-class. The reviewer has taken a stance on psychoanalytical ideas that is typical of the science side of the discipline. They clearly think it’s a waste of time to look for meaning beyond practical application, e.g. for literary analysis, and something only someone with time and money would do.
It goes deeper than that as well. There’s a clear derogatory link between academia and being upper middle-class and the reviewer is offended because, as a result of their lower class, they don’t understand the book. They have tried to blame the author, by throwing around intellectual names like Lacan and Marx, and showing that they are the sort of high-standing citizen that gives to charity, but ultimately, the subject matter of the book is beyond them. They have taken this to be a result of class hindrances, which it probably is. The reviewer isn’t educated or cultured enough to understand the book. This annoys them and so they are attacking those who are.
There is a perception, which is hard to explain, that the most difficult and annoying class is the middle-class. Part of this arises out of the fact that the middle-class is such a long continuum. People who are middle-class often have delusions of being very high class, even though they probably started as working-class. They are constantly competing with each other within the class. This review is, to me, a good example of that, because it’s obvious that the reviewer is lower middle-class themselves. They have a profession, they are educated at higher education level and they are reading books about Freud for fun. They are proud to be middle-class. But then this book comes along and makes them feel alienated from their own demographic. It makes them feel like an outsider; they don’t have the power to understand the book. So they attack the author for daring to show that they aren’t so high up after all.
The perception of middle-class people of being stuck-up also links to a perception that some upper-class people are easy-going and easier to get on with for working-class people than the middle-classes. The idea being, no doubt, that the upper and working classes both understand their place, they are content with who they are. But the middle-classes are always wanting to keep with the Joneses, to get better, to compete with you. Here are 3 comedy clips that illustrate my point. The first is stand-up comedy by Billy Connolly, who’s about as working-class as you can get (it’s just audio), and the others are from a 90s sketch show (bonus: the second one has the actor who plays Mr Weasley in it!)
youtube
youtube
youtube
I always felt like Gryffindor was a bit like the annoying middle-class guy comparing you to him. I can just hear Gryffindors saying “I couldn’t help but notice that I am considerably more perfect/popular than yooouuuuwww”!
In conclusion, feel free to dislike Severus all you want, but if you could stop calling him racist I would really appreciate it.
To finish (at last, I hear you cry) here is a Brief suggested watch/listen list if you interested in representations of class. They should all be accessible online.I am happy to answer questions about any of them.
TV-
Blackadder, but only series 2-4, 1 is shit (Rowan Atkinson plays a middle-class man stuck between the stupid working and upper-classes)
Harry Enfield and Chums, Little Britain (both sketch shows attacking all classes)
Only fools and horses (2 working-class brothers try to make a living by selling dodgy goods at the market)
Auf Wiedersehen, Pet (you will need subtitles – it’s about a group of guest workers in Germany and the main characters are geordies, which means from Newcastle)
The fact that these are all comedies says it all about our views of the situation.
Films – Billy Elliot (2000)
Pride (2014) (both are about the miners’ strike in the 80s, which is the most important event in recent working-class history, and both deal with LGBT themes)
East in East (1999) (about the added struggles for working-class immigrants)
The Full Monty (1997) (about unemployed working-class men stripping for money – it’s a comedy!)
Music – the album ‘Different class’ by Pulp, a band from Sheffield, a very working-class city (which I happen to love as I went to university there) which suffered terribly from the collapse of British industry since basically all the steel was made there. The film ‘The Full Monty’ is set there.
Other – any stand-up comedy (the working-class art) by the comedians Peter Kay or (pre-2000s) Billy Connolly.
Thank you and I apologise for the length!
#Harry Potter#british class system#British history#BRITISH SCHOOLS#britain vs america#snape love#snapedom#working class#@deathdaydungeon
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Comedian John Early Doesn't Love Working With Tahini - Grub Street
![Tumblr media](https://64.media.tumblr.com/14a0b6645126490d7c6820c3f63f4aa5/tumblr_inline_pqnkltcsS21wxassm_540.jpg)
“I love Pequeña so much. They have mastered the frozen margarita, so much so that I order one even though I have therapy immediately after.” Photo: Scott Heins
Two years ago, actor and comedian John Early moved from New York to Los Angeles for a television show, and while the project fell through, he stayed and planted roots. Now, when you do see him over on this coast, it’s to tape his TBS show Search Party, in which he plays Elliott, or for various other projects, including next week’s Padma Puts on a Comedy Show at the Bell House, benefiting the Movement Voter Project. Though Early didn’t have as much opportunity to cook this week as he’d like (“I became obsessed with making pasta at a very young age”), he still found time for copious amounts of cold brew, homemade burgers with radicchio buns (“they are divine”), and pizza passing itself off as an hors d’oeuvre. Read all about it in this week’s Grub Street Diet.
Thursday, October 11 I like to start every day with a cold brew and a Propecia. The cold brew comes from Primrose, my neighborhood coffee shop while I’m in town shooting the zero-time Emmy nominated Search Party. It’s these temporary pillars of familiarity that create some much-needed structure amid the formlessness of my bicoastal lifestyle. #theunbearablelightnessofbicoastiality #bicoastalvisibility
For breakfast, my boyfriend and I salt some watermelon — just like my very southern dad does, except he’s never heard of Maldon™. I’m a little too proud of how meager this meal is. It’s no coincidence that this is my very first entry. My daily cold-brew-induced panic begins, and I find myself immediately paralyzed by the performative nature of the whole endeavor. Will I accurately represent myself as the passionate eater that I know myself to be? Will I bring attention to the restaurants and small businesses that truly need it? Is it braggy to talk about my boyfriend? It feels so transparent to include him (“I, too, am loved!”), but dishonest to leave him out!
Did I mention he’s an artist? We take the train into Tribeca and stop by the iconic the Compleat Sculptor to get him some modeling clay for a project. We are starving and a block away from Trader Joe’s, so we pick up some premade salads and a peanut-butter-cookie Lärabar. I can already feel the walls of my hard-earned gourmand identity crumbling around me. I vigorously shake my salad in its plastic container to dress it. I consider lying and saying that we were beckoned into “the most unpretentious red-sauce Italian place by its adorable elderly owner.” The salad explodes in my lap.
For dinner, we drunkenly pick at a tray of falafel toppings with our bare hands at a reception for a friend’s photography show. Damn.
Friday, October 12 I get another cold brew from Primrose and take a Propecia. My boyfriend makes me a smoothie of frozen berries, banana, green apple, and kale for breakfast, and I wonder, Is it 1998? I keep it to myself because the smoothie is truly good, and ultimately I resent diet trends that look down on them.
I pace around the apartment rehearsing what I’m going to say on a very confrontational call that I have to make at the end of the day. I willfully enter into conflict about once every 400 years. A truck could be driving on the wrong side of the road, barreling toward me, and I would not honk. I am so nervous that I forget to eat lunch (so chic), and around 3 p.m. I throw together all that is left of our groceries: a Monsanto apple and banana, and some curried chicken salad that I bought on the previous day’s Trader Joe’s trip but didn’t mention here because of y’all’s relentless judgment.
I make the call. No one dies. I go to Roman’s in Fort Greene with my boyfriend to $elf $oothe. It’s worth the goddamn bill — perfect Martinis, orange wine, gorgeous fava-bean purée, radicchio with anchovy and Parmesan, tortelli with a butter and sage sauce, chicken al diavolo, panna cotta, and chocolate sorbet. I swear to god Keri Russell is eating at the bar just like us. I’ve heard rumors that she lives in this area. It’s definitely not her, but for that split second I feel that life in New York can feel as good as an episode of Felicity.
Saturday, October 13 I am hungover. I pop a Propecia and drag my gay ass to Primrose for a cold brew on my way to shoot a short film by a friend from college. When I get to set, I eat a truly exquisite whole-wheat everything bagel with cream cheese. It helps a lot even though I’m trying to “cut back on grain.”
The catering on set is Frito pie with vegan chili, chicken-salad sliders, and other such church-camp delights. The thematic cohesiveness of the meal is a little oppressive, but I soldier on.
After the shoot, my boyfriend and I go to a play called Slash by Leah Hennessey and Emily Allan (of Zhe Zhe glory) at MX Gallery. The show is astonishing and perfect, and we ride our cultural high to Kiki’s, a Greek restaurant in Chinatown. We have lemony potatoes, smoky eggplant dip, orange-peel sausage, lamb fricassée, and a waitstaff that doesn’t care for my jokes.
Sunday, October 14 I chomp down on a Propecia and head to Primrose where my boyfriend and I collect a free cold brew, having loyally filled our card with the required nine stamps. I playfully tell the cashier that I wish there was a little more ceremony — a siren, confetti, etc. She, too, doesn’t care for my jokes, and my boyfriend generously reassures me on the walk home that she’s probably a Pratt freshman consumed by her new life in Brooklyn.
We get some groceries and make burgers with pepperoncini, avocado, caramelized onions, mayo, Dijon, and radicchio buns (LOL). I laugh out loud, but they are divine. If you can pull off a radicchio leaf without tearing it, it’s very cuplike. And Goddamn it, reader, I swear if you caught me on a different week you’d be shocked by my cooking. I started early. What’s nice about being a gay boy is, before you become cripplingly self-aware about your gayness, you have no shame just following your mom around the kitchen and asking her questions.
In the afternoon, we go to the premiere of Can You Ever Forgive Me, thanks to tickets from queen Dolly Wells, who is in the movie and is characteristically genius in it. While sitting BEHIND JUDGE JUDY AND IN FRONT OF JOEL GREY (!!!!!), we eat popcorn and a couple of bourbon-flavored chocolates. At the after-party, we piece together a free dinner of mediocre mushroom and prosciutto cut-up pizza (“flatbread”) hors d’oeuvres, and marvel at the grace with which Judge Judy interfaces with her adoring public.
Monday, October 15 The usual cold brew cut with Propecia. I have to work today, but only for a couple of hours starting at 4 p.m. My schedule is so easy breezy this season that I wonder if I’m like Valerie Cherish slowly being phased out of Room and Bored. But I’m secretly loving the domesticity. I pick up some groceries and make some lunch for my boyfriend and me. A baby-kale salad with sunflower seeds and a tahini, olive oil, lemon zest, and juice dressing. I’m so bad at “working with” tahini. Why is it always so fucking chunky? I thought I added enough water to smooth it out. Maybe the citrus curdled it? I can feel the ghost of Kate Berlant, my comedy partner and undisputed tahini queen, cackling over my shoulder as I whisk to no avail. The salad is still pretty good — the flavors are all there, gang! — and I serve it with some scrambled eggs and a side of grilled preserved artichokes.
I go to Search Party to take some sort of photo that will be used as a prop in the show. I get to my trailer and am horrified to find no costume, but sweatpants, a hoodie, and big boxers. This can only mean one thing: partial nudity. I react to the horror by eating half of one of those god-awful RXBARs and some Earl Grey tea with almond milk. I imagine this is what Carey Mulligan does when she’s “feeling peckish.” As usual with this show, the partial nudity is truly worth the joke. I am made up like a cherub, my body is oiled, and I pose with a lyre. It’s extremely funny, and I also leave feeling a stronger sense of connection to Anne Geddes, which is frankly something I’ve been after my entire Goddamn life.
For dinner, we order (“We … we! I’m still getting used to saying it!”) some Neapolitan-style pizza — one with soppressata, the other a classic margherita — from a place that truly does not need my help. My boyfriend makes a salad with the leftover radicchio and a vinaigrette with minced pepperoncini and the juice from the jar. It’s really major.
Tuesday, October 16 I should mention that I’ve been trying to make my own cold brew recently to avoid spending so much money and using so much plastic. I can’t figure out the right grind though, so I throw back a Propecia and once again head to Primrose. Love brazenly making choices like these in the face of recent climate science!
I come home, and while absolutely soaring on cold brew, I see that there’s a 50 percent off sale on the Criterion Collection website. A mere two feet away from my boyfriend, I order six titles that I will never watch and a $30 Blu-ray player off of Amazon Prime, and I don’t tell him because I know this behavior is unhinged. This is why cold brew is bad. Once, while drinking one during a meeting, I told an executive that I was the “Robyn of comedy” with zero irony.
I go to Pequeña for a late lunch after my manic purchase. I love Pequeña so much. They have mastered the frozen margarita, so much so that I order one even though I have therapy immediately after. I also get my favorite menu items: the pork burrito and the chicken soup.
Their margarita truly packs a punch, and I put on a great show for my therapist (that’s what therapy is for, right?). I meet the great Nicole Spiezio in Madison Square Park. We share a weed gummy because we are going to see A Simple Favor starring Blake Lively and everyone’s favorite Scrappy Little Nobody, Anna Kendrick (or as my boyfriend calls her “Anna Kendricks”). We eat at Shake Shack, naturally. I eat a double Shack Burger with fries and order my cheese sauce on the side. We get to the theater for the 7:45 showing, and the edible kicks in right as we receive the news that the screening is sold out. Maybe it’s the edible, but the stakes feel so high that I feel like we’re in Argo, which I’ve never seen. We get in a cab and head to the Kips Bay AMC to try to make it in time for the 7:55 showing, but there is only one seat left. I beg the woman at the box office, “Is there anything you can do?” She looks at me like I’m crazy — obviously, there is nothing she can do. We are stuck in Kips Bay, high as hell, but still wanting to hang. We are beckoned into the most unpretentious Mexican place by its adorable elderly owner. Everyone in the restaurant seems to be on straight Tinder dates that aren’t going well. I drink a tequila on the rocks.
I go back home and eat frozen raspberries while relaying this story to my boyfriend. It does not land.
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Source: http://www.grubstreet.com/2018/10/comedian-john-early-grub-street-diet.html
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