#cheap hotels in England | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

p0orbaby · 30 days ago

Note

I have a possible blurb request for mary earps please??

r still lives in england and mary’s over with psg. mary comes back from paris for international duty and finally gets to see r again.

maybe mary surprises r by coming back a day early and comes home to see r in mary’s psg shirt

The flat is too quiet, but you’ve learned to live with that. Mary’s voice used to echo through the place—she’s not exactly subtle when she’s home—but with her in Paris, it’s been quieter. Not lonely, exactly. Just… quieter.

Now, the only noise comes from the hum of the kettle and the faint tinny sound of some reality TV rerun you’ve half-watched four times already. You’re standing in the kitchen, her oversized PSG shirt hanging off you, half-distracted as you wait for the water to boil. It’s the away kit—black and gold—soft from too many washes. She left it behind, and you’ve convinced yourself she wouldn’t mind.

The kettle clicks off. You pour the water over a tea bag, take a sip too soon, and immediately regret your life choices.

It’s fine. It’s all fine. You’ve survived this long-distance thing so far, even if it’s been weeks since you’ve had so much as a proper hug. Mary texts, she calls, she sends voice notes when she’s bored on team buses, but it’s not the same. You keep busy—work, friends, this new phase of your life where you apparently cosplay as a PSG superfan when no one’s looking.

Then there’s a sound. A faint jingle of keys.

You freeze.

No one else has keys.

“Don’t freak out,” comes a voice from the door. Familiar. Dry. A little smug.

Your tea sloshes onto the counter as you whip around, heart hammering.

Mary’s standing there, suitcase at her feet, coat hanging off one shoulder like she’s just walked out of a bloody rom-com. Except this is your kitchen, and rom-com Mary probably wouldn’t be grinning so much at the sight of you in her shirt.

“You’re back,” you say, because your brain is apparently still catching up.

“Early,” she clarifies, stepping inside. She looks far too pleased with herself, green eyes glittering as she takes you in. “Nice shirt, by the way”

You look down like you’ve forgotten what you’re wearing. “Oh, this old thing? Found it lying around”

“Hmm. Looks better on you, honestly.” She sets her suitcase aside and crosses the room in two strides, pulling you into her arms before you can think of a reply.

The hug is as good as you remembered. Maybe better. Her warmth seeps into you, and you breathe in the familiar scent of her—something clean, fresh, with an undertone of cheap hotel shampoo.

“God, I missed you,” she mutters against your hair.

“You didn’t tell me you were coming back early”

“Yeah, well.” She pulls back just enough to look at you, hands still on your waist. “I thought a surprise might be fun. Looks like I was right”

You laugh softly, looping your arms around her neck. “You were right. For a change”

She tilts her head, grinning. “This time? How often am I wrong?”

You don’t answer, just kiss her instead. It’s been too long, and judging by the way she immediately tightens her grip on you, she feels the same.

When you finally pull away, you’re both a little breathless.

“So,” she says, voice lighter now, “are you going to keep that shirt on, or do I get my wardrobe back?”

You raise an eyebrow. “What makes you think I’m giving it back?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she says, her grin turning cheeky as she leans in, voice dropping just enough to make your heart stutter. “I might have a few ideas to convince you”

Your tea goes cold on the counter, but you don’t really care.

#mary earps #mary earps x reader #woso #woso x reader

167 notes · View notes

surftrips · 1 year ago

Text

SNOW ON THE BEACH

OBX WRITING WEEK DAY 2 — MEET CUTE W/ JOHN B.

word count: 1158

summary: after y/n's flight is delayed, she ends up stranded in a cafe in kildare, rescued by a golden-haired boy.

a/n: my first time writing for john b. and i had so much fun! it's been so hot where i am so i am yearning for winter and cozy vibes in case you can't tell haha

Y/N’s flight to Boston had been delayed at the Kildare Airport, out of all places. And out of all the reasons, it was because of an impending snow storm. Who even knew that it snowed in North Carolina? She couldn’t believe her luck, she was supposed to be going home to visit her family for winter break and now she was stuck in the middle of nowhere.

She supposed the Outer Banks would’ve been beautiful any other time of the year, but it was December and there was no one left but her and the locals. With an indefinite layover, she decided to leave the airport and head into town. Y/N was in desperate need of caffeine.

After hailing a taxi and asking to be taken to the nearest cafe, she lugged her carry-on and suitcase into the store before realizing that she had no place to stay. She knew no one in the area and she was sure all the hotel rooms for the night would have been booked by now.

Groaning, she ordered a hot caramel latte and slumped into a seat by the window. Y/N shot her mom a quick text about her flight being delayed, not in the mood to call her and explain the whole situation. Next, she pulled open her laptop and started looking into a cheap AirBnb or motel nearby.

In the middle of doing so, she was interrupted by a voice behind her.

“Hey, you’re not from around here,” he said.

She turned around to see who it was. Her initial guardedness went away when she saw that the boy was around her age. “Is that a question or a statement?” she replied.

Smiling, he said, “I’m pretty confident it’s a fact. I’ve never seen you around here before.”

“Don’t you get a lot of tourists?”

“Not many as pretty as you are.”

Y/N found herself blushing despite how ridiculous this situation was. “I’m just passing by,” she muttered out, unsure of how to respond to his straightforwardness.

“Really? You didn’t plan on vacationing in the Outer Banks in the dead of winter?”

She laughed, the ice having been broken, and decided that it was probably safe to introduce herself to this (admittedly) cute stranger.

“Haha, no, not really. I’m Y/N, by the way.”

“My friends call me John B. Y/N, what’s your story?”

“Well, my flight here was awful, thanks for asking. Then I found out my connection to Boston was delayed because of a New England storm or something and now I’m stuck here indefinitely,” she sighed.

“Shit, sorry to hear that. You must be really unlucky because it never snows around here.”

“You’re really helping me feel better John B.”

“Sorry,” he scratched his head. “How can I help?”

“Seriously? You want to help me?”

“Yeah, sure. Got nothing better to do.”

“Well, unless you have a place where I can crash I don’t think you can help me very much.”

With that, the boy’s eyes lit up. “Actually, I do happen to have a place for you to stay.”

“Oh, I-I was sorta joking you really don’t have to do that.”

“It’s no big deal, my friends crash there all the time. My dad’s not home that much and even if he was, he wouldn’t mind.”

Y/N was starting to wonder what the catch was, sure the boy looked nice and like he meant well, but at the end of the day, this was a stranger. He could be luring her back to his house and she would never be seen again.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he started again.

“What?”

“You can trust me. Look, it’s a small town, everyone knows me. I’ll even invite all my friends over so you can feel safe. Two of them are girls.”

Y/N really wanted to say yes. She had been silently begging all day for a miracle and this was the closest thing to it at the moment.

Sighing, she gave in. “Okay, fine. How far away do you live?”

“Like ten minutes that way,” he pointed east from the store. “We can get there in the Twinkie.”

“The what?”

He led her outside where he had parked his van, infamously named the Twinkie. John B. carried her suitcase into the back while she held onto her carry-on.

“And this thing is safe?”

“Yes, she is safe to ride in. My friends and I have been through a lot worse than a minor storm with her.”

“Whatever you say,” she said, still not convinced. “Hey, what time do you think it’s going to snow anyway?”

“Who knows if it even will? My buddy Pope said it probably won’t get cold enough.”

What was supposed to be a short ride back to his house ended up becoming a very elaborate tour of the town. It started with John B. pointing out a few of his friend’s houses, then the The Wreck where his friend Kiara worked, the high school they all went to, and finally, they ended up at the beach.

Y/N had to admit, it was a nice beach. Even in the dead of December, the sand looked clean and the sparkling ocean had not yet frozen over. As John B. admired the landscape, she used this time to get a good look at him. His golden brunette hair, the blue bandana around his neck, the slight hint of a smile on his face as he looked out into the water. She couldn’t decide what was more beautiful to her at that moment, the boy or the sea.

“Oh my god,” his voice snapped her out of her thoughts.

“What? What?”

Wordlessly, he fumbled open his side of the door and raced outside.

“John B? Where are you going?” she called out after him.

“I can’t believe it,” he said, in awe.

“Can’t believe what—” Y/N stopped in her tracks. There, in front of them, and above and behind, were small white flecks. They could’ve been lights, or fireflies, but she knew they weren’t. He knew it too, even though he had only seen it a few times in his life.

“It’s snowing,” he said, incredulously.

“Oh my god, it is!” Y/N had grown up with the seasons, had felt the wrath of a New England blizzard ten times over, but this, this was something magical.

“Is this what it feels like? It’s like a scene from a movie,” he was smiling like a little kid now, reaching to grab a pocketful before the flakes melted in his hand.

“This is so weird.”

“But beautiful,” he looked over at her then, taking in the moment. Her smile was like she just won a contest, and she found no need to hide it anymore.

John B. pulled his arms around Y/N, wrapping her in his embrace. They stayed like that watching the snow come down, silently.

#obxweek23 #obx #outer banks #obx x reader #obx imagine #john b x reader #john b imagine #chase stokes #chase stokes x reader #john b x you #john b routledge

74 notes · View notes

thestalwartheart · 2 years ago

Text

bonds.

This was based off a prompt given to me by @eragonsaphira forever ago. All you really need to know is that in Australia and New Zealand, we have an underwear brand called Bonds. You can see where this is going. Rated E. Read here or on AO3.

Bond’s thumb trails over Q’s lower back. Not satisfied with interrupting Q’s routine at work, he seems intent on bringing chaos to Q’s domestic routine as well. That single touch has all the intent of distracting Q from getting his early-morning load of washing done.

“Is there a reason,” Bond purrs, voice still husky from sleep, “that you’re parading around with my name on your pants?”

“What? Your name isn’t—“ Q puts down his laundry basket and looks down at the waistband of his briefs. “Oh.”

“Yes, oh. Recent purchase?”

“No. I got them years ago when I was in Australia with—” Q stops, remembering he really shouldn’t be letting slip about any past beaus high-up in Britain’s intelligence community. Also, he has no urge to encounter Bond’s distinctively green-eyed side, though he suspects that particular boat has already sailed. “Never mind. I was in Sydney.”

“With who?” Something else seems to dawn on Bond, and he narrows his eyes. “I thought you were afraid of flying.”

“Ah, yes. Well, I wasn’t at the time, and the airline lost my luggage, so I bought some clothes. I happened to quite like these, so I kept them.”

“Who were you with, Q?”

“No one important. Though I suppose you aren’t in the mood to leave a man some secrets.”

Bond hums, pressing his mouth to Q’s ear. “You seem to have quite a few of them.”

There’s no real reproach to it. Bond’s hands are still playing at the waistband of his pants with intent. All the same, Q readies himself to part with a few facts about about his past. As casual as this little arrangement is, Q isn’t about to give Bond a reason not to trust him.

“I was there with an ex-boyfriend. And I’m not afraid of flying. I never went to Macau because I’m not a bloody errand boy. M didn’t take kindly to being reminded.”

“Moneypenny is hardly an errand girl.”

“True. I imagine she had other reasons for turning up in your hotel room,” remarks Q loftily. “I had someone from Q Branch ready to go when she intervened.”

Bond smiles, amused. “Jealous, were you?”

“Sorry to tell you, but I was seeing someone at the time.” Q hopes that comes across as casual enough for Bond to move past it swiftly, but his hopes are shot through when Bond's gaze sharpens.

“More ex-boyfriends.”

“Wonders never cease. And on the subject of exes, you’re not allowed to give me any flack at all.”

Bond ignores that in favour of rubbing the cotton of the briefs between his fingers. As he does, his thumb works over and over a sensitive spot on Q’s hip. Q has no doubt he’s doing it on purpose. Bond knows enough about Q’s body these days to play it like a violin.

“They’re cheap,” Bond tuts, snapping at the waist.

Q rolls his eyes. “They’re serviceable. Come to think of it, I believe you’ve been described that way too.”

“Fine things can be serviceable. If they have my name on them, they ought to be better quality.”

“It’s not actually your name. You do see that, don’t you? Or is your eyesight going in your ripe old age?”

Bond smacks Q’s arse rather hard for that, and Q tries very hard not to let out the noise that gathers in his throat.

“I’m willing to forgive the lack of apostrophe,” decides Bond. “I like seeing my name on you.”

“Evidently. You’ve never spanked me before.”

“I should have. You’re a terror.”

“Shall I lie on my front and think of England then? Perhaps you’d like me to call you Da—”

He gets another swat against the other cheek for that, then, with an impatience that signals he’s finished with games for the morning, Bond plasters himself to Q’s back, wrapping his arms around Q’s waist. He’s still warm from bed, and it sends a delicious shiver through Q that only gets stronger as Bond plays lightly with one of his nipples.

“I’d rather you be quiet and come to bed," whispers Bond, "where you’re going to keep those on and ride me until your thighs are shaking and I have to hold you up.”

That sounds like the best use of an hour or two Q has ever heard in his life, but in the interests of annoying Bond even more—something else he considers another excellent use of time— he sighs, pretending to be vexed in spite of the contrary evidence in his pants.

“That sounds like a lot of work for a Sunday.”

“Since when have you been afraid of a bit of weekend work? Get upstairs.”

Q doesn’t budge, though he has plans to soon. Instead, he turns around and leans in to whisper in Bond’s ear.

“You know, they came in a pack of five, and I bought more than one. This isn’t the first time I’ve paraded around with your name on my arse.”

Bond groans and pulls Q into a hot and demanding kiss. It lasts an age, which is not nearly long enough. For all the joy Q gets out of their bickering, he’d be happy never to speak again if it meant Bond would kiss him like this all day, with his searing tongue and skilled lips, and teeth that ever only bite as hard as Q wants them to.

When the break apart, Q is still in the mood to tease. “In fact, if I remember correctly, I was wearing them the day we met, which I considered a very funny joke at the time. And after I handed over that gun, I thought it would be even more fun if, without arousing suspicion, of course—”

“Christ, Q.”

“—we paid a visit to the men’s bathroom so you could find out where my loyalties really lay.”

“You can't be serious. I looked like a wreck,” says Bond, incredulous. He seems a bit overcome.

“I have a great fondness for wrecks. Perhaps that explains why I’m finding this caveman act so…” Q hums, content. Quite seriously, he admits, “I was yours from the start, you know. You’ve never had to worry about that.”

Bond tugs him in for another kiss. Mercifully, there are no more words after that for a very long time.

#00q #00q fic #my fic #james bond

112 notes · View notes

jonesbrianshining · 6 months ago

Text

Zouzou - French model, singer and actor - girl-friend of Brian Jones in 1965

"... I was having dinner at the Bilboquet restaurant the same night that the Stones gave their first concert in Paris (16 April 1965). They arrived and I didn´t even notice them. I went to the toilet and on the way I ran nose to nose with Brian. He asked to borrow my jumper - and we exchanged jumpers - we started talking. I found him quite annoying as he wanted me to take him to dinner at an "anthropophagic Parisian restaurant". Already at this time there was no unity between him and the other members of the band. For three days and three nights he and I wandered around Paris - and never met the other Stones. Then he went to the USA and called me on the phone. Every night. He asked me to come to England, he booked me a room at the Dorchester, but when he came to pick me up from the hotel, he got kicked out of the room. Then he asked me to live with him and we never parted again. All the time we spent together, the rest of the Stones ignored me - all except Bill. We socialised with other people - The Who, The Beatles - expecially John and George, Viv, the drummer of The Pretty Things, Eric Burdon and Alan Price - but never Keith or Mick. We´d go to the Flamingo Bar, where Brian would play with Burdon and Zoot Money. The other Stones went to posh clubs. I´d drag drunk Brian out of cheap pubs. Often he´d get furious at Mick and Keith´s songs. He thought "Have You Seen Your Mother, Baby, Standing In The Shadow?" was an outrageous, trashy song. He preferred The Beatles. He was still one of The Stones, but it was just an appearance. I don´t think he realised how his life had changed. And that lack of understanding made him paranoid. He was very impressionable and tried to kill himself on a number of occasions. He felt unwanted. As an example, he was a great harmonica player, but he lost that when Jagger took over."

First part of an interview for the French edition of the magazine "Rock&Folk" - via beatles.ru

#Brian #zouzou #the rolling stones #girlfriend of brian jones

15 notes · View notes

weirdowithaquill · 1 year ago

Text

Traintober 2023: Day 17 - Holiday

How Sudrian Tourism has Evolved:

Sodor has changed majorly thanks to the publication of the Railway Series and the subsequent Television Series, both of which propelled the island and its railways from being just another part of the UK into a tourism juggernaut. But the fact of the matter is that Sodor did not immediately transform from being an insignificant island on the coast of Cumbria to one of the most popular tourist destinations in the United Kingdom overnight – so how did it all change?

To understand, we must go back to the 1500s, and the Protestant Reformation in England. At the time, Sodor was part of the English Crown – but far looser than its Irish and Welsh neighbours. Due to its small size, rough terrain and low population, King Henry VIII was far less interested in confiscating Catholic land on the island than its surrounding areas. This was in part due to the both Sir Geoffrey Regaby and Bishop Michael Colden, who managed to guide Sodor away from the Lincolnshire Rising and the Pilgrimage of Grace. Due to their remote location and general poverty, Thomas Cromwell never visited Sodor, and Cronk Abbey was never closed. For its part, St Luoc’s Cathedral at Suddery was ‘converted’ to a Protestant Cathedral in 1537, but continued holding Catholic mass. This was done by holding the two religious ceremonies one after the other.

As Sodor was now one of the few parts of the British Isles that had a Catholic church and direct line to the Papacy in Rome, it became an ‘underground’ tourist destination as a new British site of pilgrimage, frequented by Catholics looking to attend mass at the Suddery Cathedral. In return for continuing these ceremonies, Sudrians became more devout to the crown – in particular to Queen Elizabeth I, and by 1603 the Catholic mass had been all but forgotten. This did not end the attractiveness of Sodor as a religious destination, due to the caves of Saint Machan and several other holy sites that litter the island; the numbers were not large, but they did lead to a number of important connections, especially with Ireland, the Isle of Man and English ports.

The next phase of Sudrian tourism came in the 1860s, when the Skarloey Railway found the long-forgotten Skarloey lake and hidden hollow. Rather than explain it, I think I’ll just use the description that the Reverend Wilbert Awdry did:

“Spas were popular at the period and offered the possibility of a lucrative passenger business. Skarloey’s mineral springs and sheltered situation took hold on the minds of some members of the Board, among them Shamus Tebroc who conceived the idea of developing Skarloey as a spa. An hotel and a number of villas were built as a speculation, and the gravity worked incline which had been installed for the conveyance of materials was retained and up-graded for coals, merchandise, and passengers’ luggage.”

Skarloey became the first of the Island of Sodor’s tourist hotspots, especially due to its proximity to Culdee Fell and Saint Machan’s cave. The popularity of the spas was good for a time, but began to fall off as the bad fortunes of the Sodor & Mainland Railway continuously hurt the Skarloey Railway’s tourism campaign with delayed and cancelled trains, ratty carriages and even standoffish staff. This led to Skarloey becoming a local holiday destination instead, but even that began to slow down as WWII loomed.

On the other side of the island, the Mid Sodor Railway also began heavily advertising their railway to holidaymakers across the UK, but to a somewhat better result. The Isle of Man Steam Packet contract the railway picked up led to a large influx of tourists across the late 1800s and early 1900s, up until the 1920s. The railway’s ability to reach the walled city of Peel Godred and the cave of Saint Machan (via the Culdee Fell Railway) made it a very attractive destination for tourists, though this would change at the end of WWI.

The advent of relatively cheap international travel via ferries in the 1920s did a lot of damage to Sodor’s tourism economy, as their major markets in England preferred to travel to either the Continent or the Lake District – or even as far afield as the United States. Sodor instead switched to being primarily an agricultural and resource-extraction economy, with some manufacturing. This continued throughout WWII.

Which leads us to May 12th, 1945. The Three Railway Engines was published – in colour – in the UK. It achieved enough success to lead to the continuation of the series in 1946, and again in 1948, and then again continuously until 1972. These twenty-seven years’ worth of publicity for the island and its railways had a massive effect. Skarloey was rediscovered and the budget-conscience holiday maker of the 1960s chose it for its low prices, high quality, and picturesque scenery, turning around the railways needed to reach it. The Culdee Fell Railway also saw an uptick in traffic as the Peel Godred Railway brought in more passengers than the old Mid Sodor Railway had.

Furthermore, tourists came to see the engines, a phenomenon not seen before in the island’s tourism industry. Insignificant towns such as Dryaw, Brendam, Crosby and Glennock became infinitely more popular as the sites of incidents in the Railway Series, or as convenient locations to stay for travelling the island. The biggest success story of the island’s cities was Cronk however. Cronk grew massively from the tourism trade as the most central location on the NWR to reach the various tourist destinations of Sodor – even Awdry takes a moment to mention ‘The Crown of Sodor’ Hotel on Sigmund Street due to its prominence as a hotel on the island.

This large influx of tourists was however of a majorly local source – the UK, parts of continental Europe and a relatively low number from North America. It wasn’t until the advent of cheap international jetplane flights in the mid-1970s and the debut of the TV series on October 9, 1984.

This debut is what changed everything.

The Thomas and Friends Television series was an international success, with translations into a number of languages (eleven by Wikipedia’s count) and broadcast around the globe. This, coupled with the opening of an enlarged airport at Vicarstown (which had been constructed in 1941 by the RAF and expanded by Vickers in the 1960s. The airport itself had been bought by the NWR in 1982 (probably in anticipation of the TV series) and began receiving jetliners from across the world as early as 1986.

Today, Sudrian tourism is one of the largest income producers in northern England due to its international status crafted by the Thomas & Friends series. The island is a popular tourist attraction for both railfans and Thomas fans, as well as religious pilgrims, spa enthusiasts, hikers, ramblers and historians. The airport at Vicarstown has been linked into the NWR via a spur line, and more recently a number of signs on the island have been converted to include secondary and tertiary languages, for better interpretation.

Sodor reached its best numbers for international tourists in 2019, when over 1.5 million people visited the island, making it the third most visited tourist destination within England, beating out Birmingham. The secret to it’s recent further uptick in visitors is the opening of a number of museums, galleries and other cultural sites on the island, as well as a strong advertising campaign that focused on the island’s major tourist draws, which are:

The North Western Railway, Skarloey Railway, Culdee Fell Railway and Arlesdale Railway from the Railway Series book and subsequent Television series

A pre-Norman era Abbey at Cronk, one of the oldest of its kind in Britain

Suddery Cathedral, which continues to be one of the few remaining pre-reformation cathedrals in Britain

Several Norman-era castles, including a completely intact castle at Harwick

The Walled City of Peel Godred

The caves of Saint Machan

Culdee Fell

Henry's Forest National Park

Skarloey and its spas

Museums, galleries, and cultural centres

The Standing Stones of Killdane.

This advertising campaign brought a greater variety of tourists to the island, especially those from North America.

The island was badly affected by the advent of the Coronavirus pandemic, which saw the high tourist numbers of the previous decade prop by over eighty percent, which forced the island to once again consider restructuring their economy around agriculture, manufacturing, and resource extraction. This eventually was decided against, as tourist numbers have slowly picked back up through 2022.

Sodor has been greatly affected by its rise to one of the most prominent tourist destinations in the UK, including a number of hotels being built on the island – many of which are converted manorhouses – as well as several upgrades made to the transport systems of the island, with updated ferry services between the island’s major ports and locations in the UK and Ireland, as well as the railway building a special line to the island’s main airport, new tram and bus services within the major cities on the island. The island’s railway system has also seen upgrades throughout the latter half of the 20th century, including a third track being added to the mainline, new signalling systems and a number of extra connecting services to cities in the UK, such as Manchester, Birmingham, Carlisle and Preston.

Sodor has grown drastically as a result of its tourism industry and is today an international tourism hotspot. The island continues to be popular into the modern day, as a result of strong advertising and a pointed diversification of tourist offerings on the island to help the island’s tourism industry grow and bring in profits for the island’s people.

Back to Master Post

#fanfiction writer #weirdowithaquill #railway series #thomas the tank engine #railways #RWS analysis #Thomas and friends analysis #island of sodor #tourism #mid sodor railway #skarloey railway #traintober 2023 #traintober

36 notes · View notes

mariacallous · 5 months ago

Text

As a teenager, I was embarrassed about liking chopped liver. To be fair, I was embarrassed about most things — my parents, my lack of the coolest sneakers, and my freckles among many other things. But liking chopped liver was high up on the list. It was just one of those gross foods: aesthetically unappealing, greyish and mushy, and just plain weird. None of my non-Jewish schoolmates had ever heard of anything like it.

But it tasted so damn good. All of it did — my grandmother’s, made from beef livers and shimmering with schmaltz served weekly at Shabbat lunch; the mass-produced packaged stuff that was kind of gristly, in a not-all-bad way; the scoops of it sandwiched between two slightly stale slices of white bread at the kosher deli (which may well have been the packaged stuff); and best of all, the creamier pate-like offerings, topped with a sweet fruit chutney, served at Friday night buffets in Israeli hotels. Chopped liver was rich and didn’t require a lot of effort — you barely needed to chew it. It also sparked an iron-fueled rush of energy. It was my guilty pleasure.

I didn’t realize I had been so spoiled in the chopped liver department until I left home from England, to Israel, where it was actually quite hard to find. Israeli chefs were deep into a returning-to-culinary-roots movement but hadn’t really delved into the Ashkenazi kitchen yet, preferring the spicier, sexier Mizrahi dishes like kubbeh and upscale stuffed pita sandwiches. I could find chopped liver in haredi areas like Bnei Brak, but it was a real schlep.

So I did what any committed liver enthusiast would do: I started making my own. I had my grandmother’s recipe, but beef livers were hard to come by, so I set my sights on a chicken liver version I’d found in Geila Hocherman’s Kosher Modern cookbook. This was more a pate; it departed from tradition in some quite ballsy ways, like adding capers! And thyme! And chili flakes! I was intrigued.

Finding chicken livers wasn’t a problem — there were trays of them, slippery and pink, in the Carmel Market in Tel Aviv. And, like those my Ashkenazi ancestors cooked within Eastern Europe, they were cheap and sold raw. Back at home, I gave my grandmother a call and she, delighted by my culinary undertaking, gave me step-by-step instructions. First I had to rinse the livers, salt them, and broil them — this was going to take some time.

I tend to be an impatient cook — technique-heavy, complicated recipes bring out the worst in me. But the process of making chopped liver was unexpectedly enjoyable. Growing up in an Orthodox community, my role as a woman often felt passive, mostly consisting of watching the men participate in Judaism. So it felt new, and welcome, to take on the active task of preparing the livers, with instructions passed down through my matriarchs for generations.

Once they’d been sufficiently broiled on both sides, I added the livers to a pan with caramelized onions, capers, thyme chili flakes, and a splash of white wine. Then I blitzed the mixture and a few slices of soaked bread with a hand mixer and steeled myself for a taste.

While the unorthodox ingredients added a saline spurt and chili zing, the chopped liver tasted wonderfully familiar. It was my take on all the other versions I’d gorged myself on before — not competing with them, but adding something a little new. I was content and even proud. I sat at the kitchen table with a glass of red wine, a box of crackers, and a jar of mango chutney and ate half my homemade liver in one sitting. Not the healthiest snack, I grant you, but it was an important reminder to me that sometimes it is worth investing time in the kitchen to please only yourself. Making chopped liver began as an exercise in nostalgia but turned out to be much more — an act of culinary self-care.

7 notes · View notes

teaandransacking · 2 years ago

Note

I'm a fan of yours on ao3 and I binged your The Devil All the Time series this week - so good OMFG - and your soft smut is immaculate.

Would you bless us with some Lucy/Lockwood first time smut including the Lockwood Pajamas (tm)?

First of all YOU HAVE READ THAT FIC? I feel like only about 10 people in the world read that, and I loved writing it. Thankyou.

Just for you, please enjoy some 5-ply soft, non explicit smut.

Let's pretend these characters are 18 or older, OK? OK.

except when we went from friends to this

Words: 2500 ~ Pairing: Anthony Lockwood x Lucy Carlyle ~ Content: super soft non explicit, dreamy first-time sex.

It all begins with a present from Flo.

Lockwood is confused at first. A hotel? He hasn’t been inside a hotel - the ones that are unhaunted, anyway - since he was a small boy in a boy size suit, eating afternoon tea with his parents on his birthday. The memory makes him feel funny, and he rubs his hand over his chest as he looks down at the shiny voucher, out of place against the cheap formica of the cafe tabletop.

Flo frowns. “I hope I didn’t overstep, Locky. It’s your birthday, after all, and I thought - well, you could take Lucy with you-”

He looks up at that, and a different sort of emotion makes his chest tight. Fantasy snapshots flit through his mind. Lucy, walking down the grand staircase of a fancy hotel, a cocktail dress flaring out from her hips. Lucy, covered up to her neck in bubbles in a fancy hotel bathtub.

He could give her that.

He traces his finger along the edge of the card. “How did you get this?”

“Bartered for it, didn’t I. Amazing what you can get when you’ve got an… eclectic skill set like mine.”

Lockwood thinks it’s best he doesn’t ask any more questions about that.

“What about George?” he blurts out, wondering if the other young man will feel left out.

Flo smiles slowly. “You know I’ve never been entirely altruistic, Locky. If you and Lucy are out, well, I’ll have George and his ghormeh sabzi all to myself, won’t I?”

Oh. Lockwood looks down into his cup of tea, feeling a flush creep up his neck. “Right. And he’s…. Okay with it?”

“Would I have asked if he wasn’t?” She grins.

Thinking about the implications of her smile and her words too long makes Lockwood think of the time with the yoga, so he blinks the image away, sipping tea. “Thankyou,” he says eventually. “This is really kind. I appreciate it.”

Flo grins that cheshire cat grin again. “No, you don’t. But you will.”

He doesn’t rise to the bait, but tucks the gold-edged voucher away safely inside his coat.

He knows what Flo thinks is going to happen if he takes Lucy to the hotel. Maybe it will, and maybe it won’t, but what Lockwood wants most is just to be with her, uninterrupted time, where they can talk and cuddle and laugh and relax, without the threat of Visitors - or any other kind of unwanted guests.

Perhaps he’ll get the Do Not Disturb sign and hang it on the door as soon as they arrive.

If Lucy agrees to go, that is.

####

“The Connaught?” Lucy exclaims, almost knocking over her mug of tea. She grabs it just in time, so that only a few drops spill over the edge. Her eyes are wide with excitement, and Lockwood could just drown in them, wade into those clear depths and never look back, not for anything. “That’s the poshest hotel in England!”

“So you want to go, then?” He asks, nerves cramping his stomach. “With me, I mean.”

She gives him a funny look. “Who else would I want to go with?”

He reaches across the table, from his position opposite her, runs his index finger over the back of her hand. “I wanted to be sure.”

Lucy turns her hand over, palm upwards, and tangles their fingers together. “You are a bit of an idiot sometimes, you know that?”

Relief makes his shoulders slump, and he feels the grin spread across his face. “I am well aware.”

####

Dinner’s at eight, the desk clerk informs them, but it’s not included in their room rate.

“Not to worry,” Lucy murmurs as they head off towards the stairs with their room key, “I packed a picnic we can eat on the carpet.”

He loves her. If he wasn’t entirely sure of it before, he is now.

The room somehow manages to be cavernous but cosy. How that’s achieved, he has no idea, and right now, he can’t bring himself to care as he watches Lucy run for the huge bed and launch herself on to it. She bounces, laughing, and it’s been so long since he’s heard her laugh like that, carefree, and when she lands, her gaze finds him.

“Come on, then! You can’t come all the way here and not bounce on this bed.”

“It’s only Mayfair,” he points out, but the smile on his face is completely irrepressible. He feels like he has to add, “at least take off your shoes.”

Lucy laughs, but wiggles to the end of the bed and shucks off her boots. “Come on, Lockwood. Remove the stick from up your arse for once.”

She says it so fondly that he can’t be annoyed, even a little bit. Truth be told, he was a bit of a stick in the mud before her, before George.

He toes off his trainers and shoves them aside before walking to the bed. For a second he falters, wondering what to do. He would have known, once, before his entire family was taken from him, before-

Lucy grabs his hand and tugs him, and he falls on top of her, their bodies flush, and she looks up at him in surprise, her lips parted slightly, and it’s an invitation he simply can’t refuse. He settles his forearms either side of her head and then he touches his mouth to hers.

It starts off soft and sweet, like many of their kisses, mostly chaste, and then she slides a hand up into his hair and sighs into his mouth, and suddenly everything inside him is on fire.

“Lucy,” he groans, drawing back to look at her. Her lips are kiss-swollen and her titian hair is spread out over the crisp, snow-white bedsheets. He’s seen some of the finest art in the known world, and none of it, not a single painting, compares to having Lucy Carlyle warm and willing under him, her gaze lust-soft and her cheeks flushed.

She smooths his hair back from where it falls over his forehead. “I did really want to see you jump on the bed, but I think this is better.”

It’s very difficult to think when their bodies are so perfectly lined up, especially since he’s never been this close to her without interruption, but he concentrates and makes himself form a reply. “I’ll do a cartwheel over the bed later if it’ll make you laugh, but for now - wild horses couldn’t pull me away from this moment.”

“You can do a cartwheel?” she asks, her brows arching up, but his expression must be a reply all in itself, because she presses her lips closed and then frames his face between her hands. “I love it here, too. I’ve, er, been thinking for a while that it’d be nice to have some time together. Hard to relax when anyone might overhear.”

“Yeah. That’s not really my thing,” Lockwood agrees.

Mischief flits across Lucy’s beautiful face. “I’d like to find out what is your thing.” And she lets her body go soft under his, spreading her legs so he’s cradled right there and his brain completely short circuits at the sensation, even through their layers of clothes.

“Have mercy,” he manages to whisper.

“On the great Anthony bloody Lockwood? Never,” she whispers, but there’s gentleness in her voice. “How about a bath, first?”

That makes him immediately imagine her naked, and for another second he can’t form a single coherent thought.

Lucy shakes her head, laughs softly, but it’s a sweet laugh, a kind, warm one. He doesn’t protest when she rolls their bodies and then hops off him, standing and holding out her hand. “Come on. A proper bath, in a proper big bath tub, with fancy bubbles! I have never had fancy bubbles!”

Lockwood has to blink again to get the cogs in his brain to turn, and then he lets himself be led into what turns out to be a palatial bathroom. It’s all sleek marble floor tiles and travertine walls, and the claw foot tub rises from the floor, a porcelain leviathan, waiting to be filled, and all he can do is stand there and imagine Lucy in it, the water fanning out her hair, and her eyes closed, long lashes resting on her cheeks.

She turns on the taps, fits the plug in the circular hole, and then eyes him. “Clothes.”

He blinks at her. “Yes. I packed them.”

Lucy rolls her eyes. “We can’t get in the bath with clothes on, Lockwood.” She grins at him, and there she is, sarcastic as ever, and suddenly he feels at home again. “I’ll turn around if you like.”

Heat floods his face, and he starts to acquiesce, and then he realises, he doesn’t want her to turn around. He wants to feel her gaze on him as he undresses, and then he wants to see her peel her own layers away, and he wants to sink into the hot water with her, feel the silk of her skin and slide soapy hands over her-

And then he’s obviously dawdled too long, because Lucy crosses the space between them and starts unwinding his tie. He gazes down at her, at the overhead lights glinting off her gorgeous, silky red hair, and he drops a kiss on her forehead.

She looks up, a small smile on her lips, and continues with her ministrations until his tie lies limp around his neck, either side of the collar of his white shirt.

“I can do the rest,” he says softly.

She steps back, grinning, her eyes eating him up, and in that moment, he feels like he could take on the world, if only he could carry the light in her gaze with him always.

He discards the tie, unbuttons the shirt. He’s been shirtless in front of her before, for short periods - one memorable time when she couldn’t sleep and came to talk to him at midnight when he was already undressed - but never like this, with this superheated air between their bodies.

Lockwood shrugs the shirt off and it falls to the floor in a whisper of cotton. He doesn’t look at what he’s doing, only at her, and the naked want in her eyes could sustain him for days.

The metal buckle of his belt clinks loudly as he unbuckles it, stepping out of his trousers and pulling off his socks, and then he’s barefoot in the fancy, high-ceiling bathroom, wearing only black boxers, and for a moment, nerves shred his stomach, but then Lucy hooks a finger in the waistband of his underwear and pulls him close to kiss him, and his fears unravel into warm yearning. His arms go around her and he holds her as their mouths whisper over each other.

Then she draws back, smiling a little, and moves to turn off the taps. “Nice and full. Water’s going to get cold. Can’t waste it.”

He glances over at the veritable lake. No bubbles, but they’ve got all night. They can always have another bath later. He opens his mouth to tell her that it’s her turn to take off her clothes, but instead hears himself say, “Might I - can I - undress you?”

Her eyes spark. “Since you ask so nicely. Come here, then.”

Lockwood joins her by the rolltop side of the bath, his hands going to the hem of her jumper, fingers curling in the softness of it, and then she lifts her arms obligingly, and he gently tugs it off. It goes the way of his clothes, unmissed, and her tank top and jeans and socks follow, and then she stands, pale and perfect in her underwear, and the shape of her blows every one of his fantasies out of the water.

Lucy whispers, “I think we’re still wearing too many clothes for a bath,” and he grins at her, and they help each other with the last of their garments, and then climb into the tub, gazing at each other.

The bottle of body wash is glass, and scented with citrus and bergamot, and it’s silky-smooth when they wash each other with it, learning the angles and curves and lines and soft spaces of each other’s bodies. There’s no words, but there’s no need for any, not when they’re cocooned here together, warm and wet and safe and together.

The water is tepid, almost cold, when they leave the bath, and Lockwood wraps Lucy in a huge, soft bath towel, and then himself, and she laughs when they run to the bed together, snuggling under the covers until they’re warm again.

Lockwood isn’t sure who makes the first move - he’s pretty sure it’s Lucy, of course it is - but one moment they’re cuddling, talking softly, and then next moment, she’s straddling his hips, looking down at him with large, soft eyes, and being under her is bliss unlike any he’s ever experienced.

“I haven’t ever - that is…” he begins, settling his hands on her hips, wanting something, wanting everything, except to disappoint her. He couldn’t bear it.

She drops a kiss on his mouth. “I haven’t either, but I’m almost certain we’ll figure it out together.”

And they do, for the first time, and the pleasure is intense and overwhelming and so much more than he could ever have expected.

He learns what to do to make Lucy sigh his name, how to make her hands fist in the bedsheets, and he does it several more times, before they eventually remember that picnic, and they eat it wearing their pajamas, sat on the carpet, looking through the big picture window up at the stars.

“I wanted to give you something special,” Lockwood begins as they lie together, after midnight, curled up sleepily in the enormous bed. “I thought about you in a pretty dress, on the big grand staircase… having a fancy dinner…”

Lucy chuckles. “Is that what you think I want? Fancy dinners? Do I need to remind you about my feelings on horseradish?”

He grins into the dark room. “No, you don’t.” He sighs, kissing her hair. “I wanted it to be perfect.”

“Anthony Lockwood, you never know when to bloody shut up, do you? It is perfect.” She snuggles into it, slides a leg over his. “And if you really want to make up for the lack of fancy dinner, you can order breakfast in bed tomorrow.”

#lucewood #locklyle #lockwood and co #tumblr request #lockwood and co fanfiction

96 notes · View notes

ohmyoverland · 1 year ago

Text

Ghost!Lockwood snippet for the first prompt of @lockwoodandcoff

The house was cheap. Too cheap.

Lucy knew this when she first saw the For Sale sign, she knew it when she called the real estate agent, she knew it when she was signing the closing papers and took the eagerly-offered key.

But she had an ace up her sleeve: nowhere else to go. Between her renter’s history and Jacobs’ blacklist, there was no bed nor sofa left in all of England she was welcome to crash on. Faced with the choice of wasting all her savings on hotel rooms until she ran out and settled for a park bench, or spending it all on a house, Lucy would take the leaky roof and foreboding attic every time. And maybe having a project would be good for her.

It didn’t take long after moving in to learn what was cutting the price down. The problem even had a name: Lockwood.

“So what’s on the docket for today?” He asked, semi-corporeal form appearing to walk in step with her down the stairs.

#this is a No Problem but ghosts still exist AU #i didn't have much time to FINISH it this weekend but in the spirit of it being flash fiction i wanted to share anyway #lockwood & co #lucy carlyle #anthony lockwood #lockwood and co flash fiction #my writing #fic

20 notes · View notes

rosemaryhelenxo · 4 months ago

Text

South Beach Restaurant and Bar at The Nici, Bournemouth: A Culinary Delight with Ocean Views | Review

With its picturesque beach views and vibrant atmosphere, it’s no wonder that South Beach at The Nici, in Bournemouth has become a popular destination for food lovers. Located in the heart of the popular beach town, this restaurant offers a unique dining experience that combines delicious food with a beautiful backdrop. As a self-proclaimed foodie, I couldn’t resist the opportunity to indulge in…

0 notes

starrose17 · 1 year ago

Text

Ohhh I have such a big life decision to make and I just can't decide.

Some of you may remember I did a post about walking out of my job back in August after having a breakdown, well I did go back but working 4 rather than 5 days a week.

Mentally it's been great so far makes a big difference, but of course money wise it's a problem. Had to cancel subscriptions to stuff and find much cheaper deals for insurance, internet, phone etc etc etc, and although it is manageable i basically have no extra money for anything. No takeaways, no games, nothing that I enjoy.

I keep umming and ahhing about moving house again. Lived near London all my life then moved to Scotland for 3 years now I'm down in the westcoast but i hate where I live it's a dump full of morons and it makes me hate humanity more than i already do. And I hate it alot.

Working with the public for 11 years makes you very very bitter towards people because you only see the worst side of them and you are not allowed to react just smile and wave smile and wave and I don't like how angry it's made me as a person. I genuinely hate every person I see. Just strangers in the street, anyone, it's why I don't go anywhere I have zero social life cos I can't stand being around people.

I have a hell of alot of pent up anger, but the problem is I cannot find another job out of the hotel sector I already work in cos you need "experience" and the only experience i have is as a receptionist. Any Office skills were lost 20 years ago, so no one even looks at my CV.

So, if I'm stuck in the job I have, then at least I could make where I live better so I don't feel so angry, hence the indecision about moving.

Because where to move.

I could move further south west, to a lovely town on the beach, great beach walks in the warm, BUT, expensive housing, so difficult to find the kind of house with a large garden that I want.

Alternatively, I could move back up North again, either to the mountains in Scotland or North East England where there is another beach type town, though colder of course, but it will get snow, which I absolutely love. Same with the place in the mountains that I'm thinking of, and the houses are SO cheap up there I could almost buy two of them for the price I'd sell my current house for, so it'd be alot easier to get the type of house and garden I want. But it is very far away from my mum, who is getting on in years and what if she needs help when she gets older I don't want to abandon her.

All 3 of these places have a brand of my hotel there so I could just transfer, so no worries about not having a job to go into, but I just can't decide what to do.

Do I stay and try and make it work on 4 days? Do I move? If so where? More money if moved up North and will have snow, and a train line direct to London, but far away from mum. Or down further south, less money and less travel options, but beautiful warm beach to live on.

I just don't know what to do. I tried to look up therapy to deal with my hatred, but ironically I can't afford it, which made me even more angry.

*sigh*

Why can't I just move to a little village in the middle of no where and not have to work at all, just live off vegetables grown in my garden and somehow get free electricity and internet, that'd be great.

10 notes · View notes

wannabedjs · 10 months ago

Text

2003 was an eventful year...Went on a reality tv show ("Anything for Love") which never aired, studies abroad in Guadalajara Mexico, visted Mexico City, and Cuba . A key new chapter in my life. Fairly quickly after starting my job at UCH in 1998 it became quite evident that there was a disconnect between the providers/staff who only spoke English and the sizable patient population that only spoke Spanish. The sole translator was Dr. Michel Choncol, a renal fellow from Venezuela. I've always felt that the monolingual culture of the USA was a disadvantage. Having only taken a couple Spanish classes in high school, I had near zero Spanish skills. I decided to start the process to learn spanish. Taking classes a couple times a week at Colorado Free University and then enrolling at CU Denver into classess for no credit. Over a period of 3-4 years I advanced my spanish vocabulary to hold simple conversations. I knew if I wanted to accelerate my learning I needed to have a dedicated period of immersion. I'd been talking about this plan for a number of months, so when I proposed the idea of taking a 2 month immersive 'sabbatical' in Mexico to my boss and coworker, it was received with support. As a student at CU Denver I was able to enroll in an study abroad program down to Guadalajara, Mexico. Guadalajara is the LA of Mexico (Mexico city being the NYC) and is located in the state of Jalisco (home of tequila, puerto vallarta, mariachi music, and dozens of large scale murals). I lived with a family that had 2 other 'renters" in their central Gudalajara home. One of the other renters was a Japanese guy who didn't speak English and worked as a sushi chef and was a lucha libre on the side.

Wonderful experience as I learned more in 6 weeks of class than I did in the previous 3-4 years of classroom studies in Denver. (The key was not hanging out with the other native English speakers, most of whom were from England. The movie, Y tu mama tambien, had a sizable impact on most of them wanting to learn Spanish). I regularly hung out with the family's young 20ish old daughter and her boyfriend, Diego, who I was pretty sure was part of the cartel. He owned a couple "bars" which were just fields of land where they served cheap beer and had hip hop music. He even had a young dog named "Sixty" (for 69..yep. no lie).

Weekend trips included a memorable evening in a cemetery in Michoacan for noche de muertos. Straight out of Coco.

I had 2 weeks at the end open for travel and full immersion traveling to Spanish speaking cities. Half way thru my time in Guadalajara, I started planning an excursion to Mexico City then Cuba. Mexico City was as lively as advertised and my prep for Cuba seemed rather simple. No US banks in Cuba and they accepted cold hard cash from the USA.

So entering Havana with enough cash to make it for a week vacation in Havana and the beach town Varadero. Loved Havana and a highlight was walking up to the Interior Ministry government building thinking it was maybe some fancy hotel. It has a massive Che Guevera face on the outside with the tag line "Hasta Victoria Siempre." Now I should have researched the area where I was at, but looking over at the building I thought it said "Hotel Victoria Siempre.'....common mistake...one that you realize quickly as you begin walking toward it and fully armed military guards start walking towards you telling you to leave. I was like "Bet!" and high tailed it for some mojitos and grub far away from the plaza.

Varadero is the old Copa Cabana area. Like Vegas, but frozen in the 1960s. Massive hotels (previously casinos) just vacant. I was staying at an all inclusive type hotel with beautiful beaches with many european tourists. Most were topless which made it very difficult to read on the beach. One of the nights the hotel arranged for everyone to go to a nightclub which was all you can drink (For like 20 bucks) and had a full on cuban band with dancers. Kind of like an old supper club, but without food. It was fantastic, the 10+ piece band threw down cuban salsa/conga for hours. Towards the end of the show they invited the crown onto the large stage to dance. So here we are just getting down on the stage (the Italian gals with tops on just didn't look the same..hahaha) and they show ends at like 10ish. Within minutes of them stopping the place goes straight US hip hop club. With the 1st song being "In Da Club"...a very current song at the time.

If that wasn't memorable enough, I had everything planned. for the last 24 hours of my trip. Bus trip to the airport in Havana was scheduled and and I decided to spend the rest of the cash I had on gifts. Cigars, t shirts, foods, random wooden statues, etc. So I get to the airport and check in my bags with plenty of time before take off. As I approach the customs check point, I see that there is a $25 departure fee to leave the country. Again cash only. Problem was I only had like 5 bucks. Now I like to believe I'm relatively calm and collected when it comes to stressful situations. I find it rare that you end up in situation without a solution. Well, this was one of those situations . I had a moment where I was like "Fuck, I don't have a clue how I can make this work?" Then the master plan hit. The Cuban embargo that has kept the country frozen in time circa 1960 also has kept technology away. Common electronics are extremely expensive. SOOOO. I take out my yellow sony-disc man and walk around the airport waving it saying "se vende! Se Vende!" It took a good 30 min, but a dude came up with $20 and I sold him the discman...which got me out of the country. I still have the flight ticket with the PAGO $25 stamp on it.

2003 - peak meet me in the basement rock n roll

The comeback after the post grunge rock-rap (see Woodstock 99) boy band era. Was it all post 9/11?

Elefante, white stripes, broken social scene, strokes, TV on the radio

But also an electro-rock-punk scene w the rapture

No need to listen to- GREATS

OutKast: Speakerboxxx/The Love Below (Arista)

The White Stripes: Elephant (V2)

Radiohead: Hail to the Thief (Capitol) - saw at red rocks

BSS- you forgot it in people

Basement Jaxx: Kish Kash

Postal service- give up

Yo la tango

Belle and sebastian -dear catastrophe

RH factor - hard groove

Erykah badu - world wide

50 cent - get rich or die trying

Sandra Collins - march essential mix w pete tong from Miami winter music fest

Revisits and new finds

Four tet - rounds

- his debut (?) and maybe my fav. Less Asian/Indian influenced

Caribou- up In Flames.

early release with few great tracks.

Elefante - loved them back it 03 and still solid 2000 era rock n roll

Strokes - room on fire. Just the same music as this is it..but who cares? It’s great!

Rapture- Echos. an early release of the budding electro-punk-rock-dance scene (mainly from NYC). 2-3 banging tracks

Tv on the radio- young liars EP 1st

Audio bullys- ego war. Can’t believe this didn’t get on best of lists. A blend of house, punk, British hip hop, and beats. We Don’t Care is one of best tracks of the year.

Decemberists - her majesty. Still catchy and an enjoyable listen. Very 03-y

M83 - really out there with full synths, but a couple tracks which lead to his take off w “Dreaming” almost a decade later

Pernice brothers- these guys! Discovery of the week. Indie/folk/country rocky with a coolness and sincerity . Lyrically stellar

Massive attack 100th window

Death cab- transatlanticism

- was a late comer to DCFC and really didn’t listen to this record til 08ish. Can see why they have a large loyal fan base. My question, ya think they’ve made more money off tv shows and movies that have their music than off their records? Last song end like the 1st begins . So can start anywhere and the album flows if on repeat

New Pornographers: Electric Version (Matador)- catchy pop-indie rock. I probably would have been really into them had I given this record a couple listens back in 03

Massive attack - 100th Window. The OGs of trip hop! F/u to mezzanine from 98’. That alone made this a must listen to. Still their signature sound that resonates through me the same as in 03’. A truly night record. Not many of those in 03

Randomness

Wrens - pitchfork #1. Not good

Jeff Buckley - live at sin e rerelease as 2 CD set. He will always be a part of my musical journey. Maybe the largest part w regards to memories over years and stories

- NYC house of neon(?) during interview for job at montefore

- house sitting for Bud Carlsen (a subconscious influence to me going to CO). and making late night pancakes listening to his music

- late night music!

- heading to Memphis to search for his body with Angela Angstman and Allison

Lots of great music I didn’t get to…

Bad plus

Arab stap

Mad lib invaded blue note

British sea power

Cursive

Ted Leo and pharmacists

Jay z black album

The neptunes - clones

Constantine’s

Memomena

My morning jacket

Kings of Leon

Mogwai- happy songs for happy peeps

Yeah Yeah Yeahs: Fever to Tell (Interscope)

The Shins: Chutes Too Narrow (Sub Pop)

Lefty deceiver

#year in music #pkpickles #2003

3 notes · View notes

missdollytheog · 1 year ago

Note

Croatia was MAGICAL I cannot define in a different way. I’m not exaggerating. Dubrovnik old town was the best the sea 🌊🥹 and Zagreb too. You just have to visit Croatia definitely. We went this year so we were able to visit their football museum and they are such a big football country despite being so little and having a small population. Albania was ok I wasn’t able to see much I stayed at the hotel because I was sick so I have to see it one more time to review it better. Bosnia had the most beautiful nature and we were able to visit some mosques both in Bosnia and Serbia. We were able to cross a beautiful bridge called Mostari? I believe. I loved it there and it made me sad some stories I heard about the war💔 Serbia was also very cute it was the cheapest I drank everything 😭 novi pazar and novi sad we’re cute we visited a mosque in novi pazar. Their churches are cool. Belgrade was the liveliest city everything is very cheap and I recommend it to everyone.

Greece was one day and we were only able to eat then left I didn't participate in the tour and just ate at some nice tavernas. Greek food is to die for but I couldn't try much.

I wish I was able to see Montenegro too but it wasn't included tho. I heard it's beautiful there so I'll definitely return and this time add Montenegro, Manadonia and Turkay to the tour se mall Maybe

I heard Croatia is amazing!! Now you said it, I'm going to add on my long list to visit!! Greek food.. what to put it, I've never had it before I went to Greece and now I can't stop searching for somewhere in England I could have it.. soooooo good!!

2 notes · View notes

freakingoutthesquares · 2 years ago

Text

Russell's Japan Tour Diary (Part Two) (Part one is here) Words: Russell Senior, Photographer: Richard Priest Taken from the New Musical Express, 24 February 1996

The tawdry entrance to the eating place is billowing steam into the cold night air. Inside it is about the size of a barn with 12 kitchen/bars each having bar stewards round them where people eat and drink. It's busy and people are milling about in the aisles between the kitchen/bars. It's rough and ready with the prices and names of each kitchen's specialities hanging from the ceiling on coloured strips of cloth and paper.

Unlike everything else in Japan, it's very cheap, it's a cross between Bladerunner, a pirate's den, a bookies and a cockfighting pit. No over-bowing, women are laughing, being brassy and not taking tiny steps. We're the only westerners but we're here with our host who is Japanese and Rover who has tattoos and stuff, so in this wild Eastern bar we kind of fit in.

Rover has fallen in love, he hasn't decided who it's with yet, but is winking and smiling at several contenders just to be on the safe side. A woman in silver hot-pants swaggers over to him, blowing smoke in his face. Strangely, our host has no problem with this at all and now seems to positively want US to talk to women... and it all becomes a bit clearer.

Our guide book says, "The industrious men of 17th-Century Japan liked to relax at the end of the day with hard liquor in the company of actresses and prostitutes". The Japanese guide to English etiquette no doubt says, 'The hard-working musicians of 20th Century England love nothing better at the end of the day than to snort cocaine from the pockmarked thighs of groupies"

Soooo... we weren't being protected from the fans in the bar - they (nice girls from good families) were being protected from the foreign devils. They needn't have bothered, but I'm glad they did because this place is ace. After midnight all the deference and daintiness goes out of the window and the drunken bonhomie so familiar to us arrives on a bullet train. Bang!

People are being chummy with us, offering us saké and amusing themselves at our gaucherie, like we'd laugh at one of them putting brown sauce on their cornflakes. Rover keeps asking for 'Tom Cat soup', which transpires to be tasty things on skewers not unlike our British shish kebabs. A woman comes over and it transpires she's offering to have sex with all of us. We make our excuses and leave, having convinced her that Rover has three penises. We leave him extending the hairy hand of international friendship.

In the morning, Rover appears at breakfast devoid of his black leather, wearing an all-white pyjama suit, his head completely shaven, muttering something about the seventh law of enlightenment. He later claims to have ended up in a bar with a scantily-clad schoolgirl kicking a giraffe.

The fans at the hotel in Tokyo think we're super cool but they think they are too - this is better. Don't be like us, oh no, be even more Japanese please. "You must be feeling tired," sympathises a fan who's been waiting up all night to see us. Well actually no, we always look dog rough, but you don't want to hear that, do you? You want us to be plastic fantastic, you've put your money in a vending machine and you get Pulp just how you want it.

Rover has just come in disappointed. Apparently there are vending machines in Tokyo where you can buy schoolgirls' underpants... used. Anyway, turns out he's bought some sixth-form boy's ones, which aren't quite what he had in mind.

Shopping! The toy shop is slightly disappointing. The real toy shop is called Electric Street, where you can buy a gadget for everything. I buy a Jacuzzi for sunglasses; it works, they come out clean and relaxed.

Early evening. We're taken out for a traditional Japanese meal. Shoes must be removed before sitting cross-legged at a low table. We choose a fish from a tank called a 'blow fish'. The sexual organs of this fish are deadly poisonous. Every year 40 people die from eating this fish, along with 40 chefs who must take the honourable way out. The fish is brought to the table with the organs removed and the edible strips of raw flesh arranged in a pattern at the side.

The fish, however, is far from dead, it leans its head upwards looking at us. "This fish has died for you and you must respect it," says our host's girlfriend, who is administering the food ceremony. I don't think anyone's very happy about this and Rover blurts out, "But it isn't dead and if you don't take it away and kill it, I'm going to get my knife out and kill it!"

The fish is taken away to be killed. It tastes like raw fish. The English are drinking saké while the Japanese drink lager. The English have also bought cool cameras in Electric Street and snap away furiously. 'Bloody tourists!' think the Japanese. You probably think it's really weak not to speak out more forcefully about some of the things we see, but we're guests here and must respect their customs. However distasteful it seems, it's probably less hypocritical than our own attitudes to eating animals. Vegetarians be warned: the concept is not understood here and saying, "I don't eat dead animals" often results in a live one being brought.

After the meal we go through a ritual humiliation, Japanese style. 'Karaoke Is Joysound!' says the sign. Hmmmm... Unlike in England, you get a private room with your mates, who choose a song for you to sing and you have to get up and do it. I get 'Trouble' by Shampoo, not something I would ordinarily be inclined to sing in company. Jarvis gets a very badly translated version of MC Hammer's 'Can't Touch This' in which "legit" comes out as "Leggit", etc, etc.

And for Rover, we choose 'Gimmie A Man After Midnight', which he isn't very happy about. On the way out, we see a bloke squatting in the middle of the road staring at traffic which stops in front of him. We are taking the piss a bit, which turns out to be a very bad idea because this is not a drunk, but a Yakuza hard man staking out his territory. Our host is concerned and runs on ahead to make sure there are no more. I recollect the fearsome knives and weaponry for sale in Electric Street and stop taking the piss. The Yakuza chop off their little finger as an initiation - you do not want them as your enemies.

The first concert in Tokyo goes very well. All the concerts sold out very quickly and there is anticipation amongst the stylish and supposedly reserved crowd. I've never seen so much energy without aggression. Everything's running like clockwork. Back in the hotel foyer, which is the size of a football pitch, we are greeted by gift-bearing fans. In the middle of the foyer is a bar area, demarcated by a complete ring of chrome about 2ft-high.

None of the fans dare enter this magic circle. We are joined by some of Steve's supermodel friends called Ginger, Manx, Feline, Persian and Pussy. They are impossibly thin and drape themselves around the bar, nibbling nuts. Rover approaches, his eyes roll around in their sockets like a fruit machine. "How long is it since you tasted some 100 per cent British beef?' he asks. Bingo!

Meanwhile, back in Blighty, we're being lampooned by Spitting Image along the lines of "I want to live like famous people"; fair enough, but what would you do, all my friends and brothers? The second concert in Tokyo we go on to Beethoven's Ninth. It's a flip chill winter bastard outside but inside all is horror show, there are even quite a number of mates in the audience. We fight through a few minor technical problems to cobble together an exciting show. Jarvis has to go off to replace a lost contact lens. To the Japanese, work equals style, times content. I guess you have to live some distance from Camden to appreciate this.

Battling through adversity in a cold climate is something our cultures share, it gives a certain edginess to the evening, which is a positive thing 'cos, as I'm sure you know, there's quite a lot of darkness under all this Pulp froth. Jarvis introduces all the songs in Japanese and this goes down very well. The Japanese seem to get this, they like a good present to be in a good box. The idea that style could possibly subtract from content would not make any sense to them.

Pulp had to get popular with the public before the feral scum-sucking tabloid British music press (Love you too - NME) took any real notice, and then it was in a cartoonised and, to my mind, rather humiliating way.

We awake with the rising sun like the people in the cornflakes advert you always aspire to. I've started rooting through my paltry belongings for presents to give back to fans. The best I can do is sunglasses, which are much appreciated. However, next time in the foyer, I see that half a dozen pairs of my former sunglasses are being worn and it's embarrassing, mainly because it's impersonal and a cheap con, like giving beads for land.

Many of the presents we receive are very thoughtful indeed, very personal and apt. We give the fans so little attention, don't even bother to learn their names and they give us so much. Why these kind, intelligent people do something, on the face of it, so uncool is beyond me, but I'm not complaining.

One of the many preconceptions was that we would be yammered away at about other bands, much as in the rest of the world, only more so and in a comical Japanese accent... "Ah Erastica, you know Bobby Girrespie? You know Brur?" This is definitely not the case; it almost seems impolite to mention another band when they're so focused on you. So that's another preconception, that they're impersonal.

Also going is a well-reasoned belief in the supremacy of European culture, see ya. Actually there is one exception. They do keep giving us pictures of Menswear and assuring us that they are, well, as if they are our long lost children. We've seen so many cheesy pictures of them grinning red-eyed, in Hawaiian shirts that severe loss of ace-faceness has occurred.

The last show in Tokyo is less frenetic, but very good; we play well and do a rare-for-us second encore. Jarvis has sustained a finger injury and is taken to the hospital where an already painful finger is subjected to squeezing, pricking, burning and electrocution.

The tour manager had only come into t'doctor's office to bring t'singer but they gave him t'stick and all! It was noticed that he had a cold and he had a man kneel on his back attaching crocodile clips to his nose, electrocuting him so he thrashed about like a pinhead, his neck pulsing alarmingly. Needless to say they both confessed. God knows what they'd do if you're really ill. No wonder everyone looks so healthy, they're scared shitless to be ill.

Our last meal in Japan, at our request, involves no live animals. We give a present to our host, who then proceeds to blub uncontrollably for the rest of the meal. Any preconceptions that these are cold people went way back. As the orders are being placed, one of the record company men pipes up, "I like Beetles!" Well almost. He stands up and starts to reel off his repertory of the Fab Four's songs which is quite extensive. We're used to this kind of excellently barking mad behaviour, so it's alright. Go buddy go!

We assemble early in the lobby for departure, Jarvis has gone on ahead dressed as a Hasidic Jew to avoid the crowds. Like many well-known celebrities, Jarvis employs a double. Jarvis' double (You may have seen him in the 'Mis-Shapes' video) has been up all night drinking in a dangerous club and staggers into the foyer not only refusing to sign autographs but swearing at anyone who comes near him before failing over a sofa and collapsing on the floor.

Safely checked in at the airport, we ascend an escalator waving gaily to the tearful fans. "Please come back to Japan soon," they plead. "We will, we will," we promise. It's a promise we are to keep because it is the wrong escalator and leads nowhere. After waiting round the corner for some time, the crowd at the bottom is still there so we have to descend the escalator, waving to the now laughing fans. "Welcome back to Japan," they say. Ah ha! Enough, enough, no more gratitude. Let's go somewhere where it's rude.

The record company, who must be ill, offer to pay our room service bill. Oh gullible company did ye ken, ye'd be picking up the tab for half a million yen?

Nietzsche would have aphorised the Pulp philosophy as: 'I have my feet on the ground and my head in the clouds, thus I grow taller.' There is, of course, a combustibility to this. We draw our inspiration from elevating ordinary life, therefore ordinary people relate to it, therefore we become famous, therefore we are no longer common people, therefore we lose the sap that pushes us to the clouds and it goes snap! This is exactly how it should be.

By example, Japan has injected a certain amount of crackle back into this fragile alliance. Perhaps we can last until the stroke of midnight New Year's Eve 1999. Pop!

Based on a true story.

#russell senior #jarvis cocker #pulp #japan #90s #britpop #printed article

12 notes · View notes