#fake-patois

[jeezypetes]

The way susanna is so horrifically (racistly) abused and neglected by the narrative and by king himself… and yet she’s the only one who gets a happy ending…. Its so lame and too little too late and yet…. I crey every time

[rubylioness]

“Heard you sick of all these other imitators; don’t let the only real one intimidate ya” Bro, you’re literally a white Chris Brown tho 😭 😂

[sharloola]

ODE TO THE SALON (BLUE MAGIC)

Washed, stretched, no oils— all plans cancelled for today. 

You trek to auntie in old trackies and a beanie with your survival kit: 

Earphones and snacks shoved into a bag,

Next to 4 packs of 1b and clear gloss.

The marketplace is only a skeleton of itself when you arrive,

You pass by crates of fresh fruit and fake fendi as the streets pulse to life.

The vendors nod at you as they chat in the frosty morning glow 

and you smile back, praying you don’t run into someone you know.

Auntie’s late (but that goes without saying). 

You’re seated at her altar, neck braced, playlist loaded.

She turns moses, parting 4c with a rat tail comb 

And your open palms face the sky with synthetic hair laced between your fingers.

The small girl next to you marvels at how you stay x-pressionless throughout.

She has not yet learned to swallow pain so yelps and cries, 

Envying her brothers who have turned the shop floor into a wrestling ring.

They roll around on a sea of knotted hair, in dishevelled uniforms and overgrown taper fades.

Their mother tries to scold them for half an hour before giving up, 

Instead focusing on the tv as her red-black hair is layered and smoothed with molten tongs.

Tendrils of smoke are released with each sizzle and clink,

Curling between her and the pixelated faces of nollywood on the screen.

The smell of burning is a comfort to you now,

Child embraced by the warmth of a village who sets itself alight.

Even fire can be a kindness when welcomed, 

She heats hair masks under plastic bags and sears coils straight when asked. 

Someone is playing music from home and it rings out tinny from an old samsung.

Lingala, yoruba, patois— bodies sway to the beats regardless.

Your hips are all polyglot in rhythm, 

And somehow the crying baby drifts off to this and the sound of a blow dryer.

Auntie says you’re tall and quiet, like her daughter back home.

You realise then why her hands are so tender on your head 

And wonder if she always looks for her babies in the scalps of strangers, 

Sees a mirage of them in oil flecked reflections as her bones twist coarse tresses day after day. 

The blue magic your own mother cast when you were small still lingers.

You notice the teenage boy getting cornrows can’t understand the sorcery in this place.

He stares at the floor as his head is pulled and frowns at all the shouting, 

Unburnt ears alien to these sharp incantations of love.

You were the same when first you sat in the chair, 

Milk teeth of a wide tooth comb and nintendo to keep you busy.

You flinched at the raised voices, gazing at girls on pretty n silky boxes,

Secretly hoping pink lotion might make you look like them.

You’d sit patiently by the nail bar as your mum retouched, 

Nose crinkled at the chemicals while she assured you she’d be done soon. 

Sweet fried dumplings and curry goat from next door were your reward and sometimes, 

The man selling watered down perfume would spritz the air just to humour you.

Your mum always announced if something hurt her,

And swatted the acrylic capped fingers from her head like mosquitos.

You used to wonder if your voice would grow in after your big teeth did, 

But you still hold your tongue when pain comes from hands that could love you. 

Now, the cacophony of the salon is a familiar melody and you know the choreography. 

Eyes plié when the husband-landlord walks in heavy and italic, 

Lowering all chatter to a murmur as he demands cash from his wife.

She hands it over with a painted smile and he slams the door on his way out.

The stony interlude is short-lived because we practise alchemy through laughter here:

Auntie makes a quip about his bad breath and tension surrenders to joy.

In this coven, mens anger is snuffed out like flyaways under clouds of mousse,

Rendered lifeless by protection runes hidden in the creases of weathered palms.

The women swap stories over your head in kintsugi english, 

Kissing teeth and gesturing wildly with dollops of shine ‘n jam on the back of their hands. 

You understand now that wisdom is being sewn in as well as tracks,

And tuck their fables behind your ear for times yet to come like seeds in damp ground.

Finally, when the sun has melted to dusk, the water is set to boil. 

You are placed under the dryer and stretch out your stiff fingers.

Auntie swoops your baby hairs after the sweet olive spray,

And warns you that it’s berry cold outside as you hug.

You leave: braids dripping, scalp sore, 

Kink in your neck and pep in step.

At school, your friends would marvel as you showed off the clean parts, 

While the other kids asked to pull and prod.

For the next two weeks, you’ll be vigilant with the scarf at night

And not think about the next style until new growth turns the knotless to a blur.

A few months from now, the man in the hair shop will follow you down aisles

And you’ll call up auntie again to hear her psalm, words a mosaic with veins of gold: 

I’m fine. How’s mummy? 

(I love you)

Which hair you want? 

(I love you)

Send picture. 

(I love you)

You have the hair? 

(I love you)

Ok, come 9. 

s.o.

[turtlemagnum]

warning, long, spoilers

ok so, now that i've slept on it i think i can formulate thoughts on episode 1 in more depth. first of all, there's the good:

i liked the actors for the most part. the kid that played anakin, while admittedly not a spectacular actor, was also a little kid so i can't hold it against him. in terms of visual casting, i'd say he was about perfect, you can really see a resemblance between him and a young mark hamill, so whoever picked him out did a good job. the guy who played qui-gon and obi-wan were also pretty good, and they played off of darth maul really well in their fight. i'd honestly say it was one of the best parts of the movie, at least partially due to the fact that it was an almost completely nonverbal sequence with really good choreography. realistically i know that a double bladed sword is stupid, but they did a really good job of making it look plausibly capable in the fight. both the fake padme and real padme had good actresses, and all of these guys playing off one another in various ways really highlighted the best parts of the movie imo. shmi's actress was also really damn good, had an excellent way of portraying the weariness in her eyes, and when anakin left you could really feel like she was happy for him to be free but sad that she wouldn't be able to come with him. if there's any bad in the movie, the actors aren't remotely to blame. and that's without even mentioning how fantastic palpatine's actor was, really convincing as both a cunning yet outwardly honest appearing politician and a sith lord pulling the strings behind everything. 10/10 cast, really

i touched on this, but i honestly really liked the fight choreography for the most part. at least with the stuff with actual human actors, i'd put it all at about on par with the original trilogy. i will admit that jarjar bumblefucking around accidentally killing droids was, at time, pretty funny.

the soundtrack was good. it was a star wars movie, that's like saying your steak is good at a gordon ramsey restaurant, enough said

i honestly really liked the aesthetics of a lot of the world design. it's probably at least partially because i first became Burdened By The Curse by the kotor games which themselves heavily took from prequel era aesthetics, but overall i'd say most environments look nice.

i really liked any and all political aspects to the whole thing. from what i understand that's something a lot of people didn't like, but personally i'm not one of those Capital G Gamer types who thinks politics in media is a bad thing. it's really lovely seeing the flaws of the republic on full display, and you can really tell how they're gonna get exploited by palpatine in his ascent to emperorhood. i honestly really like what i've seen so far of the overarching plot of a liberal democracy slowly descending into the depths of fascism, weimar republic style.

i honestly really like all the foreshadow-y bits sprinkled throughout. the scene panning to palpatine at the end when yoda openly wonders if maul was the apprentice or the master, the jedi order being acutely aware of the dark trajectory of anakins future, it's all just so... mmm, chef's kiss. they really took advantage of the fact that we know where all the pieces are eventually gonna fall, some cosmic irony shit right there.

and now... The Bad;

ok so easily the worst goddamn thing about the movie was the racist shit in it, right? what with the whole greedy alien bug men with vaguely japanese accents, the large snouted, greedy, desert dwelling little freak with patchy facial hair and a vaguely jewish accent, the gungans speaking with a vaguely jamaican patois (couldn't tell you how many times they said "ting"), all of these were very easily the most uncomfortable parts of the whole damn thing, like holy shit george. i'd need a fucking crowbar to properly unpack all of that shit

springing from that, the gungans in general. aside from the racist shit they mostly weren't that bad, but i will say that specifically any time boss nass was on screen i wasn't having a good time. jarjar wasn't that annoying, but i do think that the movie would've been better either without him or with him written completely differently.

some of the CGI looks janky. i will say that unlike the stuff retroactively added to the original trilogy, it tends to look a lot more "natural", which is to say it looks like it was designed to be as such from the beginning. frankly, i find there to be a certain charm to the jankass CGI, but at the same time if it were shot with practical effects i probably wouldn't be like "hmm, this would've looked better with CGI", y'know?

the dialogue was, at times, rather clumsy. the whole "are you an angel?" thing gets memed a lot (with good reason), and frankly i think the movie would've been better without it, but it's not movie ruining or anything.

honestly, aside from our First Point here, i think the most egregious thing was the fucking pod-racing part. a complete lack of visual clarity, was mostly just CGI and noise, terrible section. i've heard people talk about how some movies will have sections that are there for the audience to leave for sustenance refills/bathroom breaks as to not miss anything important, and i think this is likely a peak example of that. absolutely wretched, pacebreaking, with barely anything remotely interesting happening

[ultimateplaylistmaker]

Wait you have docs for what languages they speak? What about THH, GD and UDG?

I have overall lore documents for most characters for my extended worldbuilding, heres a peak at Maki's

I'm putting the other characters under a cut because this is going to get long

Makoto: Speaks Japanese and Portuguese, learns English after the first game

Toko: Speaks Japanese and English and can theoretically flirt in Spanish 

Syo: Speaks Japanese and Spanish, can flirt in English

Sakura: Speaks Japanese and English

Mukuro: Speaks Japanese, English, Spanish, Mandarin, Arabic, and Russian. 

Aoi: Speaks Japanese

Hagakure: Speaks Japanese, English, Spanish, and Patois

Kirigiri: Speaks Japanese, English, Russian, and French

Sayaka: Speaks Japanese, Korean, and English

Chihiro: Speaks Japanese, Morse Code, English, and Binary

Junko: Had a huge polyglot phase and can speak a lot of languages, more than you are thinking.

Togami: Speaks Lithuanian, Japanese, English, Spanish, Russian, and French

Leon: Speaks Japanese

Hifumi: Speaks Japanese Korean and English

Mondo: Speaks Japanese

Ishimaru: Speaks Japanese, English, Korean, and Japanese Sign Language

Celeste: Speaks Japanese, English, and loose French

---

Komaru: Speaks Japanese and Portuguese 

Masaru: Speaks Japanese

Monaca: Speaks English and Japanese

Jataro: Speaks Japanese

Kotoko: Speaks English, Korean, and Japanese

Nagisa: Speaks Japanese, Chinese, Korean, and English

---

Komaeda: Speaks Japanese, English, and Japanese Sign Language, however has at least lucked himself into fluently speaking another language for a period at least once 

Hajime: Speaks Creole, Yiddish, Hebrew and Japanese (When not in Kamakura mode at least)

Gundham: Speaks Latin, Russian, English, Animal, and Japanese

Hiyoko: Speaks Japanese but knows insults in multiple languages

Souda: Speaks Japanese and English

Akane: Speaks Japanese

Peko: Speaks Japanese and English

Sonia: Speaks English Japanese French Korean Latin Spanish

Ibuki: Speaks Japanese, Yiddish, Hebrew, and English

Nekomaru: Speaks Japanese English JSL and Spanish

Fuyuhiko: Speaks Japanese and English

Teruteru: Speaks French and Japanese

Imposter: How does he somehow only know all these languages while disguised and only Japanese when he doesn’t? Scientists baffled.

Mahiru: Speaks Japanese

Mikan: Speaks Japanese

Chiaki: Speaks Japanese, English, Yiddish, Hebrew, and a random grab bag of fake video game languages, you ask her something and animal crossing animalese just falls out of her mouth

---

and if they aren't here I havent finished or made their page yet

[firespirited]

The event was the most sedate 'protest' I've ever been to.

I gave sis a quick opsec rundown before we left the house, locked my phone with a pattern and switched off, pointed out the various cops (1 for about every 5 people) found a bench and sat myself down. I was the only person wearing a mask and was expecting more of a somber vigil than the friendly hopeful chatty meet up, pain and emotional whiplash made me want to wait and see if people would engage with me rather than the opposite.

The event was organised by the local unions, lefties and greens and the league for defense of human rights. I quickly twigged that the reason they were so chill is that they've spent half the year clashing violently for workers rights and against police violence so a quiet meet with no slogans and no signs is a very different experience. One guy had spent the day before kettled by police until a judge approved the pro Palestine march in a city two hours away and the police had to retreat.

[The human rights folks have offices about 500m from our building, I remember coming across it in a cul de sac while looking for a post box and wondering if I got much weller, would they'd be interested in a fluent translator, I'd rise to the challenge of learning legalese and handle patois/créoles pretty well in both languages.]

Sis made some connections: chatted about accessibility and ecology with two people then after about 15 minutes the union leader read out a pre-approved statement which had been carefully worded: anti war crimes, pro accountability, pro human rights, condemnation of backlash against jews and muslims and a quick acknowledgement of last week's peaceful pro Palestine meet that got banned.

There were few young people and one woman in a veil, I'm guessing they either travelled to where clear protest is allowed or are trying to stay under the radar. There are a lot of muslim locals who feel it isn't their business, twenty years of being dragged for every muslim or north african action is exhausting. Being accepted as your own 'thing' means staying away from politics or having to answer twenty bad faith questions from randos. Just on the way to the meet, I got a crypto-racist rant from a dude we know and couldn't get a word in edgeways to counter.

-------

I took monday 'off' to reflect a little on having to witness the horrors from your house to the news throughout our lives and how much your mind resorts to dramatic threats 'just stop caring about everything then' or even just going numb in tantrums. (I was hoping to have a chance to mourn in some way but that didn't happen either so that's still heavy and may never fade.)

And just how hard it was to tap into hope even while surrounded by people who have fought losing battles their whole lives and kept the faith. I'm really touched by a lot of local initiatives that are doing a lot of good and am heavily invested in the food bank, family planning and social rehab programs.

But yeah, the idea that even all of us protesting could override the weapons manufacturers and defence ministry's investments in a strategic middle eastern country just makes a inner cynical voice laugh and that's very ugly and it's much stronger these days.

The ugliness has been there for as long as I remember, way back to childhood talks about how to handle bullying gracefully by patronising teachers and how we'll save the planet by remembering to switch off the lights and taps like half the class wasn't rationing electric use and wearing winter clothes at home.

I have not made peace with my inner nihilist side. We co-exist in a constant clash, it's not that I have a hopeful side to counter balance her but I shut her up with action I guess. Fighting becoming spiteful with spite, what a mess... It produces hope in others so at least I have anecdotal evidence on my not hopeful but not completely resigned side LMAO.

But I couldn't even fake hope for show, I kept my mouth shut but I wasn't encouraging to sis either. Have to 'hope' being present was enough and keep on keeping on in my own little ways.

You tell yourself everyone is complicated and fractured then you meet people who truly honestly believe in the inherent goodness of humanity and the universe and you and your monsters are thrown in stark relief.

[bllsbailey]

Kamala Harris Reveals New Jamaican Accent On 'The Late Show With Stephen Colbert'

IDIOT

On Wednesday, Vice President Kamala Harris was subjected to more mockery after a late-night talk show appearance with CBS host Stephen Colbert, as she decided to adopt another “fake accent.”

59-year-old Harris faced backlash on social media platforms and in news articles after revealing what some deemed to be a Jamaican patois during her Tuesday interview with the host of “The Late Show,” as the VP and Democrat nominee continued to criticize former President Donald Trump.

The bizarre accent change occurred while the Democrat nominee discussed Trump’s previous criticism of the federal response to Hurricane Helene.

Although Harris’s father is originally from Jamaica, it has been clear throughout her vice presidency and whole political career that she has never had any sort of Jamaican accent, up until now. 

“[Kamala’s father] Donald J. Harris, 86, a distinguished economist, lives with his second wife only two miles from the vice president’s official residence in Washington, yet he has been estranged for years from his daughter and the two seldom speak,” the New York Times reported.

Harris, who was born in Oakland, California, and raised in Canada, has also come under fire in the past for seemingly adopting urban, Midwestern, Spanish, Southern, French, and now, Jamaican accents.

“Have you no empathy, man? You know? For the, the suffering of other people. Have you no sense of purpose?” Harris said in a Jamaican accent, accusing Trump of playing “political games.” She also previously accused DeSantis of ignoring her calls for more Hurricane assistance.

— Collin Rugg (@CollinRugg) October 9, 2024

“Wake up babe, new Kamala Harris accent just dropped,” posted GOP political commentator, Savannah Hernandez.

Meanwhile, others compared Harris’s Jamaican accent to a Bob Marley impression.

The vice president has consistently been mocked for changing up her accent occasionally. Most recently during her late-night visit, Harris also ripped open a can of Miller High Life and took a sip in front of the audience, showing Americans that she’s the “cool stepmom” that voters can relate to.

Harris was criticized just last month for shifting her accent on two different occasions in order to relate to the demographic that she was speaking to at the time.

She was accused of voicing an obvious Southern drawl while speaking to teacher union members on September 2nd.  

Additionally, Harris was widely criticized on September 14th for seemingly changing her accent in order to sound more “urban” while giving a speech to the Congressional Black Caucus Foundation, which many found to be extremely racist.

On the campaign trail, critics have frequently accused Harris of changing the tone of her speech while addressing various groups, particularly at gatherings attended primarily by Black voters. However, this is nothing new, as Harris was also accused of adopting a fake French accent back in 2021 while addressing scientists at the Pasteur Institute in Paris.

“By altering her accent, [Kamala] might be perceived as inauthentic or manipulative and ultimately could undermine trust if the audience feels she is not genuine,” New York psychotherapist, Jonathan Alpert, said. “Authenticity is critical in building meaningful connections with the electorate, and if people perceive the accent as disingenuous, it could damage Harris’s credibility,” he added.

Stay informed! Receive breaking news blasts directly to your inbox for free. Subscribe here. https://www.oann.com/alerts

[claws10mileslong]

never in my life heard a danish dude doing fake patois lmfao. groundbreaking

[forensicated]

04x45 - The Assassins

Tosh and Frank are in a cafe to speak to the manager as a police snout. They want to know about fake Yugoslavian car parts being brought into the country and apparently, his cafe is where they make the deals. "Where are they all then?" the manager drawls. He has a bouncer because they're open 24/7 as a transport cafe and Frank recognises him but doesn't quite know where from yet. The manager brings Frank a breakfast that is swimming in grease and calls it the best breakfast in London. "Shame about the service." Frank snarks.

Yorkie and Malcolm attend a disturbance where a couple appear to be moving furniture for a house move. They ask for a 'Mr Cooper' who is the person who has booked them and he's apparently called the station saying they're causing a disturbance.

A gang of toff students enter the cafe making loud and depreciating comments. One of them is played by Daniel Flynn (future Superintendent, John Heaton) who is being led around by a collar and lead. Heaton Strathvane also speaks with a Jamaican patois. The manager tells them to sit down and shut up if they want serving.

Mr Cooper tells Malcolm and Yorkie that he lied about a disturbance to get the police to attend. He doesn't think the company is to be trusted. His wife admits they're very worried because they have valuable property like the husband's stamp collection. Malcolm asks if he took out insurance - he didn't. He suggests attending a broker in the high street as soon as they open and before the movers leave to get peace of mind.

The posh students continue making loud comments and open a bottle of red wine. One declares the other customers are almost in the presence of royalty and should be down on one knee. "There's only one place my knee wants to go and it's not down on the carpet." Frank drawls. The idiot approaches Tosh and asks him if he knows what democracy is. "Yeah, I do. It's the freedom not to have someone sit next to you without you asking them to." He says pointedly.

He calls the others over and they claim that Tosh and Frank are gay. Tosh is about to tell them they're police officers as the female throws the bottle of wine at the wall. The idiot who approached Tosh shouts "ASSASSINS!" and starts throwing furniture. Tosh shouts that they're police so not!Heaton tips their table over and the others join in the rioting which sends Tosh flying.

Mr Copper attends Sun Hill and tells Tom that he thinks one of his officers is making money on the side as an insurance broker because he was very insistent that he go and take out insurance (!). He tells him he's 351 or maybe 531. "Oh, and he's black. Must dash!" he says, leaving a confused Tom in his wake.

Tom tells Bob that Tosh's wife was in looking for him. Bob is confused and asks what she wanted. "I said to her I'm younger, richer and better looking but she wouldn't have it..." Tom smirks. He tells him that he sent her to the canteen.

Uniform back up arrives at the transport cafe where the riot is still going on. It's been trashed completely and in the rush to arrest each one, Frank ends up covered in ketchup.

Muriel Lines tells Bob that she asked for him because he's the only one she's met. She asks him if he can speak to Tosh for her about housekeeping money. He said he'd get some out for her but she hasn't seen him in over 24 hours and she needs to go food shopping. She can't use her bank card because it's over the limit. Bob says if Tosh is on a job he can't interrupt him so he pulls his wallet out and hands over a few notes, saying he'll settle up with Tosh later. Muriel thanks him and tells Bob that it was her and Tosh's 15th Wedding Anniversary the day before and not only did he not remember - he didn't even leave work to come home.

The idiots continue kicking off as they're forced inside the station. Burnside tells Bob that one of them reckons he's the 57th line to the throne. They call themselves the Assassins and take restaurants apart. As Tosh takes Eric the bouncer from the cafe to make his statement and be checked over, Burnside tells Bob that he thinks there's something iffy about him and asks him to run a check. The idiots don't understand why they've been arrested and claim they'll pay for any damages and throw a bundle of notes into the air. One asks if they've heard of Diplomatic Immunity. He's the son of a cultural attache to somewhere that Google doesn't recognise my attempts to spell. The others think it's hilarious as he suggests they contact his father.

The idiots are transported to court as Bob tells Tosh that his wife has been in and that he forgot his anniversary. "... She didn't say how many years it was did she?" he asks hopefully. Bob tells him it was 15 and that he should play the black eye he received in the fight for all he can in the hope it'll distract her.

Mr Cooper returns to show his insurance policy to Tony because he still thinks that the company he engaged is dodgy. He doesn't tell Tony who he is or what he is so Tony has to get it out of him bit by bit. He tells him to tell 'him' that it cost him £30 and he's still suspicious of them. "...I will as soon as I see... him?!" Tony blinks, still unaware of what is going on or who Mr Cooper means.

The diplomatically immune idiot is not happy as his father has to attend the station for the embassy to 'take responsibility for him'. He demands 'someone who knows how to treat me'. Malcolm rolls his eyes. "They're all busy." The idiot digs away at him and tells him he's a slave grafting for the white man. Bob interrupts and tells him happily that his father is on the way and he doesn't sound very happy.

Tosh and Frank enter the court as Strathvane's barrister is giving character evidence and saying that the police have made up all the charges against his client. He insists his client has suffered because the police picked on him because he's upper class and a Viscount.

The woman prisoner tries to insinuate that Viv is a lesbian and tells her she loves fighting. She moans for a second and holds her side before telling Viv 'It's nothing!' "Shame..." Viv says, smiling and closing the cell door.

Unfortunately for the posh barrister, Strathvane undoes all his good work in setting up the background of the case by literally holding his hands up and telling the judge to punish him in his faux patois. He jails him for 28 days. His accent drops. "You can't lock me up, don't you know who I am?!"

The idiot's father arrives and hands his son his arse. It's beautiful. He tells Bob that his son has gotten in with a bad crowd and requests that he be held at the station because he's waiving the diplomatic immunity and he wants him to be taken to court. His mother wants a gentleman for a son, not an aristocratic yob." Bob beams at Malcolm. "... Charge room."

Mr Cooper returns to speak to Ken this time. "They haven't turned up at the other end. "... "What exactly are you talking about sir?" "I need to talk to someone a lot older than you!"

Eric, the cafe bouncer, bumps into Tom Penny who outs him as being on the Robbery Squad. "That's where I know you from!" Frank finally realises. He's been moonlighting for a few extra pounds. Frank says he wants everything that he knows about the cafe.

Tom goes to speak to Mr Cooper and tells him "I've done everything you've asked me to and he still hasn't turned up at the other end." "... Who hasn't?" Tom asks patiently. Cooper explains that the movers haven't arrived where they're supposed to - just around the corner from the station. He's moving to Grasmere Road, not Grasmere in the Lake District as he'd had everyone else thinking.

The not-diplomatically-immune-anymore idiot is still complaining that his father only wants the police to do his dirty work and he calls them all slaves jumping to the big man's shout. He then suddenly doubles over. He shouts that the police have clearly poisoned him. Bob laughs and asks Malcolm if he's slipped something in their food. Upstairs, Frank's visitor, Eric asks if the 'posh lot are alright?'. Somehow I don't think it was Malcolm... 🤣🤣 Posh idiot is placed into an ambulance.

Tosh calls home and tells his wife that he has been injured and makes out that's why he wasn't home. "It's not bad... it's not good, but it's very painful...." he arranges to meet her in half an hour for lunch.

Malcolm and Yorkie take Mr Cooper round to where he's supposed to be moving to. He asks if they'll catch them. "It's hard to say, Mr Cooper." Yorkie says diplomatically. "In other words, don't hold my breath!"

Mrs Cooper moans at her husband for slacking and not using a professional moving team to save £70. Yorkie suggests it's not his fault but Mrs Cooper insists it is because he'd have rushed to spend £70 on stamps if he got a chance!

Eric tells Bob and Frank that the owner of the cafe doses the punters that he doesn't like with a dye that's put in the red wine. In large doses, it really affects stomachs.

Yorkie and Malcolm find the moving van. It had to pull over because the engine and exhaust had failed. They move round to check the back of the van and the woman gets jittery and tries to stop them. It's empty. "I see. That type of removal is it?" Malcom turns, confronting them.

Burnside visits the owner of the cafe and lets him know that he's onto what he does with the dye and the wine. He won't prosecute if he tells him what's going on with the fake car parts.

One Day In The Life Of Television is a documentary that goes behind the scenes of this episode. Click here and skip to 41.32 for clips that show behind the scenes, a couple of bits that were cut and also a short interview with Robert Hudson and Chris Ellison.

[manvsdiary]

think maybe ill bend into my AAVE and dey/dem everyonr just to be they/them overcomplaint nnsafe

…

OR don fake patois LMAKAPAKSOFALAPALOOLOOO

[writer59january13]

Matthew O' Harris Ease A "FAKE" Irishman

Saint Patrick's Day, or

Feast of Saint Patrick

Lá Fhéile Pádraig

invoke even non Irish to proclaim

Éirinn go Brách

translated as "Ireland Forever."

Though semitic thru and thru yours truly (me) dons guise of being Irish trumpeting hoople linked with the folklore and culture of Emerald Isle

juiced tin he nuff tame afore thee 2024 Saint Patrick's Day, (hens this faux written accent

donned to sail hub berate won big todo fur those peep pull

o' Eire rush deuce cent)

aye pretend, and thence make oop duff fallow wing vary minor event

harkening back e'er sins this generic gent, hooped tubby imp poet hint wannabe, (who hapt tubby absent without leave from Brogue kin home since a lil whippersnapper, and accident

boot tappin), when me note holler than garden variety leprechaun, advertisement tuff hind miss elf, no major ailment -

good red ants tomb ma late mum, which fair re: creatures, no argument booth us, iz moar rare than finding far leaf clover, and eek will coz fur astonishment

eef hoodlum (caw zing bedlam) sought atonement

Yukon bull heave or no, how life on the lamb

as a Dublin street urchin met belligerent

scruffy geezers old looking and bent

till kind ole soul named C. Clement

took yaws truly as apprenticed Baron without complaint,

though kept ma lidded concealment

secret til search abandoned confident

gnome hissing pipsqueak, would be sorely missed giving fresh start with help to coinvent patois, and be comb real estate magnet

ne'er no wing want oof basic needs - yea content

in due time making pile moan hee tall as Taj Mahal

kicking back during Lent gerrymandering convalescent

old age spinning yarns for modest copayment total tubular tales with nary a Harris Boss Tweed stitch of truth.

[siddysthings]

‘We will not accept fake Patois’: Jamaican linguist on dialogue in Bob Marley biopic | Bob Marley | The Guardian

[dutty-lingo]

💥🇯🇲‘We will not accept fake patois’: Jamaican linguist on dialogue in Bob Marley biopic💥

[jimi-rawlings]

Coup de Pied (Futsal)

French Futsal "Culture Antagonist"; Thé other French National Team, Jardin de Diamant de Côté d’Ivoire

Vulgar Latin French (Martiniquais Patois)

Latte Noire Graffiti Courts

Subswoofers et VIP Nuage

Boiseries Pastel Dominoes (Range Accuracy) Futsal Courts

Agility Ladder Eyes Pocket: Eyes Between Defenders Feet and Ball, Numbered Footwork V-Step (Shifting Defenders with Momentum) et L-Step (Explosive First Step), All moves should form a Triangle or an Incomplete Triangle (Coup de Pied)

*Push-Pull Sprint/Shooting Cycle: Pull Glutes et Hamstring; Push Calf et Quads for Sprints et Shots.

Sprint Size Up: A series of feint Stepover dribble moves with Eye Tricks (Fake Pass) but Sprint Position Finish

Triangle Philosophy: All Dribbling Moves should form a Triangle or an Incomplete Triangle while using V-Step (Shifting Defenders with Momentum) et L-Step (Explosive First Step).

*U-Roll Touch avec Three Door Decision Aid: U around ball for Foot Arch Contact Point et Roll Seams of thé ball

Quart de Terrain (Inverted Wing-Back Défense)

Moitié de Terrain (Inverted Winger Offense)

March 1st Transfer Windows (LVMH Farming)

Franc Zone Économique Infrastructure Tournament

Vodka Moules-frites Beach Bum Culture

Socioéconomique Status Dévelopment Centres

Vodka Endorsements

Spiritual Catalyst

Layered Herringbone Chains: Égyptien Glyphs for Planetary intelligence et Enochian Scripture

GABA

808s

Saïmon Bouabré*

[imaginethebeautifulworld]

Heyo, can you write a scenario where a reader/anon is struggling with flashbacks and trauma and Francis and Arthur are comforting them, saying kind words and offering them coffee/tea and to watch a movie? Generally cheering them up and Arthur sympathizing since he knows what is it like to be forgotten and ignored? I am sorry if it is too specific and am not sure if this counts as a dating scenario? Anyway, I would really love it if you ever write it, but do realize you have other requests

Took me a while to write it all out, Lovely, but here you go!

[Warnings in advance for descriptions of a panic attack.]

God dammit.

You couldn't move, barely registered the moment that your knees failed you, the dulled sensation of bumping your head against the bathroom door.

Everything was shaking, muffled, hazy, and you still couldn't move, the distant memories you had locked away overpowering everything else.

You didn't hear the knock on the door, and while you could soon see Francis kneeling in front of you, could see he was trying to talk to you, to reach you-

The grip of your memories, of the past, of that-

It took far more effort than you would ever dare admit to meet his eyes, for you to force your focus away from the plummeting spiral of your memories and relentlessly intrusive thoughts.

He was here.

You were here.

He was trying to breathe with you.

He was bringing you back to yourself, building a barricade between your present and the past that was desperate to continue plaguing you.

You heard Arthur's voice, muffled and distant and much too far away, saw Fran replying without looking away, his palms moving to massage your arms now that you were finally starting to feel safe again.

God, you must have looked a mess.

It was the intrusion of that thought which finally set you more-or-less to rights again, had you falling forward into his chest, letting him pull you into his arms.

The world was still far too muted for you to understand what he was saying, to even bother attempting to translate what you recognized as his own patois gently brushing against your crown, softly whispering near your ears, united with feather light kisses and the ever-present dance of his fingertips twirling in circles along your back.

The following few moments passed in a strange sort of blur, your body moving as if by its own desire, your thoughts and sense of self still detached from the present.

You had been guided from Francis' lap at some point, had moved into a standing position, led out of the small room into the main corridor, worried emerald eyes meeting yours with piercing intensity.

It was the fierce emotion in Arthur's eyes that snapped your thoughts back to the moment, mouth falling open slightly at just how [stern] he seemed.

You only barely registered Francis saying he was headed for the kitchen, Arthur's nod the only confirmation that you had heard correctly. The space behind you was cold in Fran's absence, and Arthur's unreadable expression as he approached you only made the chill settle deeper.

The attack had taken more out of you than was normal, felt longer than normal; in reflection, it felt as if the eternity had bled into multitudes, and you were beyond relieved that Fran had found you when he did before you spiraled even further beyond the brink.

Arthur slowly approached you, steely expression still intimidating beyond belief, and you half-ached to shrink away, unsure of what was going through his head. You couldn't even manage a half of a faked smile to break the tension, couldn't-

You were completely unprepared for his hug, weren't ready for how he quite nearly lifted you in the rush of it, didn't know how to cope with the pressure of it. He was clinging to you, holding on as if you were somehow going to disappear on him.

"Uh-"

"Don't you dare scare me like that again."

There was a sound of defeat in his words, of a worry you couldn't explain, something so unexpected that it made your heart twist in both affection and guilt.

His hold wouldn't relinquish, and you really had no choice but to hug him back, letting your eyes close as you savored his warmth, his strength.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Arthur's voice was scarcely above a whisper, a murmur that was just as gentle as his touch, just as comforting.

There was an invitation there, a warmth that was as welcoming as it was kind.

For a brief moment, you actually considered opening up, yet-

"I can't," you barely croaked out, wincing at the sound of it. "I'm sorry," you continued, feeling the prickling of more tears threatening to escape, overwhelmed by the fact that he still loved you, in spite of your weakness.

There was a strange sort of sound- something between a sigh and a sad chuckle- before he was somehow drawing you nearer, the strength he rarely showed proving to be more reassuring than confining. "Why on Earth would you need to apologise, luv?"

"I-" You couldn't hope to explain it to him, how much you hated making others worry about you, how you were supposed to be strong, how-

"This wasn't the first time, was it?" His words still all your racing thoughts, silenced everything. They had been more rhetorical than anything, a knowing tone that cut off any hopes of a lie. You bit your lip, turning your head to stare at the hellishly expensive new drapes Fran had insisted on.

Arthur took your silence as an affirmative, releasing a deep, exhausted sigh, drawing slightly away. You kept your head turned towards the windows, tried not to flinch when he placed his fingers on your cheek, gently guiding your focus back to him. "How long?"

You wanted to hide away again, ashamed of being the source of his worry, unused to being this vulnerable around him, uncomfortable being the center of attention.

But if there was one thing you had learned during this obscure courtship, he was obstinately stubborn. "Arthur, I-"

"Mes chéris? Au canapé s'il vous plaît!" Fran's voice couldn't have come at a more perfect time, giving you the distraction you needed to pull away from Art.

"D'accord, mon cœur," you called out, quickly making your way over to the sofa, settling yourself near the end closest to the garden.

Arthur moved to follow you, quickly interrupted by Francis poking his head out of the kitchen, pointedly glaring at the Englishman. "And no shoes!" Just as quickly, he disappeared again, Arthur staring after him, completely unimpressed.

"Meh-neh-meh. No shoes," he mimicked an elongated, horrible mockery of a French accent, accompanied by an utterly ridiculous, petulant expression that had you fighting laughter. He smirked at that, before he proceeded to kick off his Docs, climb onto the arm nearest him, walking atop the cushions, all before depositing himself into the small corner you had left behind you, where you had intended to put a pillow.

You grumbled in irritation, and for a moment you considered making him suffer with the confines of his chosen space, but soon relented, shifting enough that he could wrap himself around you, a strange attempt at a reverse hug. His hands found yours, and you couldn't help relaxing against him, surrounded by warmth.

He rested his chin on your shoulder, and it wasn't until he was hugging you a little tighter that you realized-

"So."

This was a trap.

You must have tensed upon the realization, a soft kiss coming to rest against the space behind your ear. He said nothing for a bit, waited for you to relax again, his breath teasing your scalp.

"So?" You finally repeated, neither of you acknowledging how shallow your breathing had become.

"You didn't answer my question earlier, dove. How long?"

There was no point trying to avoid it; he would only keep finding ways to harass you until you answered him. You huffed to yourself, took time to weigh his question carefully, trying to decide if a lie or simple sincerity would serve you better. Opting for the middle ground, you dropped your head back to rest on his shoulder, content to stare at the figures painted on the ceiling. "Longer than I'd like to admit."

Arthur said nothing for a few moments, the only sounds coming from the kitchen as Francis finished prepping your tea, and what you suspected to be some snacks. Sunlight trailed in gently from the windows, the light warming your exposed toes. You were finally starting to find your peace once more- safe in Arthur's arms, safe in this sanctuary that Fran had built across Time.

"We get them too, you know." Arthur's words were quiet, yet still startling in how unexpected they were. Carefully, you turned your head, shifting to a position to indicate he held your attention. "Well, me more than France, really. But that's not the bit that matters."

You kept quiet; once England became invested in something, it was usually more a challenge to get him to shut up again- a passing thought which had you smiling to yourself.

As expected, he continued without prompting, your smile growing just a fraction brighter. "What matters to me is that you understand you're not alone anymore. You don't have to hide when you're hurt, when you're angry, or when you're feeling lost. We-" He cut himself off, though his thumbs continued dancing gently on your palms, one of his fingers tapping against your hand as he thought.

"I used to hide them, too." His words were suddenly much quieter, filled with such sadness that it made your heart ache. "I got so used to being alone, fighting alone, that when the day came when I finally realized I had this family of people who love me for who I am, I thought I couldn't let any of them know how broken I actually was."

It was no secret to you that both of your partners carried unfathomable weight upon their shoulders, but it was rare to catch a glimpse into just how truly heart-breaking that weight could be. His admission had you squeezing his hand, lifting it to press a kiss to his knuckles.

He hummed in acknowledgement, shifting his position; the familiar sound of his hair against the silk velvet served as a comfort in its own right. "I was an idiot, truth-be-told. I should have realised that the people who love me-" He paused again, both of you listening to the sound of Francis rambling to his cat, soon bustling about the kitchen once again.

"We're all a bit broken, luv. But that's why we have each other. That's why we love each other. To be each other's strength, to be each other's shield, to be each other's shoulder to cry on."

His words had taken on a more pointed tone, meant now more as a request than a reflection. You bit your lip, found your eyes darting towards the kitchen door, half-hoping Francis would pop back in.

But it was quiet, Arthur's arms around you offered both a distinct level of comfort and another of suffocation, and in the moment it was impossible to determine which was more dominant.

"Iggy... I-" You huffed to yourself, focused only on the comfort of his embrace, tried to focus on the knowledge that to be here right now meant he loved you, and that, really, nothing, no one could ever take that from you.

He wouldn't leave you, and your other partner, who had just come back into the living room with a full-on fucking tea cart, loaded down with sweet treats and junk food he swore would never be welcome in his house-

They both loved you.

With a nearly silent whisper, you finally surrendered. "I'll try."

You hadn't realized how much tension Arthur had been carrying until he was relaxing behind you, practically melting into the arm of the couch, pressing another, firmer kiss to your crown as he pulled you back with him.

Francis' eyes met yours as he finally made it to the sofa, a question clearly written in them. You offered him as bright a smile as you could muster, and imperiously gestured (with Arthur's hands still clinging to your own and thus following your movements) to the remaining section of the couch. "Saved you a seat," you offered, your smile becoming a little warmer.

Francis, seeming to sense you feeling a little better, beamed, his expression once more shifting into that playful, cheeky one you knew so well, one you loved more than you would ever dare admit aloud. "An offer I appreciate, cher, but alas I have a prior duty to see through."

You felt your expression furrow in confusion, only to laugh slightly as he bowed and gestured grandly to the little golden cart he had pushed in. "Coffee? Tea? Chocolat chaud?"

"Fran-" Whatever protests or comments you had been thinking of faded at the look in his eyes, and you fell back against Arthur, resigned to your fate. You requested your preference, tried to hide your smile at all the fanfare he made into prepping your drink for you, nearly protested upon realizing which china he was serving it in. But you kept your words to yourself, knew it was better not to bother trying to argue with either of them.

Fran gave Arthur a dubious look. "I suppose I should offer you something, as well."

"Anyone with a sense of common decency would, so I could understand if you don't."

"What is that supposed to mean!"

"Oh, I think you know."

You hung your head, trying to hide your amusement. Half of their bickering was performative; you had plenty of evidence to vouch for the deep love and respect that lay underneath all the senseless insults.

You took another sip of your drink to hide your smile, even as you heard the mortified sound that Francis let out, the utterly devious cackling that was Artie's reply.

Dumbasses, the pair of them.

Your dumbasses.

"Ah, there you are." You startled upon realizing how close Fran had drawn in the last few moments, now settling on the couch before you, only a few centimeters between your legs. You met his eyes, almost lost yourself in the loving smile waiting there for you.

There was relief there, too, that familiar sting of guilt guiding your hand to his own, squeezing it in assurance. "Here I am."

He was quick to press a kiss to your knuckles, your movement having given him the perfect opportunity.

There must have been a moment you missed where Arthur had swiped the remote, the TV turning on with a familiar electrical hum. Between the warmth of your drink and the soft, repetitive sweep of Fran's thumb over your hand, you found you didn't care what the Englishman may be picking for once. He had such bizarre tastes at times; maybe bizarre would be nice for a change.

When you heard the opening credits to your favorite film though, you couldn't help your sound of surprise, trying to turn around enough to convey your disbelief. "You're actually-?"

"If you make a big deal out of it, luv, I will-"

"Did you just threaten them?" Francis sounded so much like an angry school teacher that you couldn't fight your laugh, missing the relieved looks he and Arthur exchanged over the top of your head before resuming their usual tirade, quickly settling down when you whined lightly about them being too loud.

By the end of the movie, all three of you were beneath the same blanket, Arthur fighting tears at the happy ending, and your head rested comfortably on Fran's chest, while his hand languidly massaged nonsensical designs across your back.

You knew the bad things would always be there, memories that could still find their ways to come back and haunt you.

But you were safe, loved, warm, protected, cherished.

So long as you had them both at your side, there was nothing you couldn't face.

Thanks for reading!

[leahthedreamer]

Shoutout to The Witcher s2 ep5 for having an authentic Jamaican lady who speaks patois instead of a foreign actor faking the accent. Love that.