#hits of 1966

[howardhawkshollywoodmusic]

45. B-A-B-Y by Carla Thomas debuted Aug 16 and peaked at number 14, scoring 986 points.

Carla was born in Memphis, the daughter of singer Rufus Thomas, who also recorded for Stax Records. Carla had 22 chart entries 1961-69. Her first entry, Gee Whiz (Look at His Eyes) was her only top ten hit. It peaked at number 10 and was the number 80 hit of 1961.

[widowshill]

BURKE DEVLIN & ROGER COLLINS. — It isn't really amazing if you know what love is about. — Well, yes, I suppose I don't know anything about love. I guess that's why she married you ten years ago and not me. — I'll go one step further. I think you've gone beyond the point of even knowing what it is.

[leojurand]

jerott + comparing marthe to lymond in pawn in frankincense

bonus checkmate

[my-chaos-radio]

Release: May 1, 1983

Lyrics:

Kathy's eyes were full of alibis

She always played around

Kathy said she needed life instead

Of a suburban town

And she didn't care when things were wrong or right

Heading out toward the city lights

Telling me that, at last, she's alive, alive

Kathy's gone and I can't go on

I've been crying lonely nights

No one knows where the true love goes in the end

Oh-oh-oh

Kathy, she shot down my world

That's no surprise

Oh, Kathy's dream to be a movie queen

Was her obsession

Sweet reviews inside the morning news

Was her reflection

And she ran away to find a fantasy

With the lovers and the limousines

Could it be that, at last, she's alive, alive?

Kathy's gone and I can't go on

I've been crying lonely nights

No one knows where the true love goes in the end

Oh-oh-oh

Kathy, she shot down my world

In a love affair no one can mend

Kathy's gone and I can't go on

I've been crying lonely nights

No one knows where the true love goes in the end

Songwriter:

Oh-oh-oh

Kathy, she shot down my world

In a love affair no one can mend

No one knows where the true love goes in the end

Maurice Ernest Gibb / Robin Hugh Gibb

AlbumFacts:

👉📖

Homepage:

Robin Gibb

[maggiecheungs]

A Moment of Terror (1966) dir. Mikio Naruse

[douglas-rain]

the documentaries on the nfb website are better video & audio quality than the youtube uploads and i'm very thankful for that, but i gotta say the fact that it pauses the film if i click to another tab is very annoying lol

anyway. bird of passage is only 10 minutes, which means there's not much point to doing a reblog chain. it's an interesting little vignette! and i like the narration by DR of course, which i'm sure nobody here is surprised by

[mudwerks]

(via The New Vaudeville Band - Winchester Cathedral (1966)

[anotsosecretdiary]

Psychedelic Bob Dylan's Greatest Hits poster

Milton Glaser's poster for Bob Dylan's Greatest Hits album, is one of the most iconic and recognizable images in the history of graphic design. The poster shows a "stylized profile" of Bob Dylan with vibrant, swirling hair that forms a psychedelic and almost hypnotic pattern. The choice of vivid, contrasting colors, particularly the bright electric, reflects the psychedelic style so popular in the 1960s.

[depressedraisin]

someone should introduce alex turner to the works of satyajit ray

[too-antigonish]

Gävlebocken! It's time!!!!!!

What are the chances? Since 1966 only 16 goats have survived completely intact. More often than not, the goat has been set on fire—lately by increasingly nefarious and/or ridiculous means. It has also been tipped over, hit by cars, kicked to pieces, stolen, etc.

What constitutes success? It has to make it from today until January 2nd (the first weekday after New Year).

My stance on the goat: Technically, I'm firmly pro-goat. I like to root for the underdog. I also once watched a documentary (Christmas Begins in Gävle) about the ten guys who build this thing every year and I'm a sucker for a sob story. On the other hand...you can't make this stuff up!

Last year's goat: Eaten by jackdaws! The straw used to construct the goat contained an unusually high percentage of seeds which attracted the birds. The goat was consumed at an alarming rate.

The Fate of the Goat Year-by-Year:

Laconic "We Do Not Glorify Goat Violence" Swedish Version

Detailed Everything That Could Ever Possibly Go Wrong with a Goat Wiki Version

This year's predictions:

According to the official Gävlebocken FAQ:

Question: Does the straw harvest look more promising than last year? Answer: Yes, the straw harvest looks good this year! Question: What other potential measures do you have to prevent the birds from eating the goat? Answer: Given that the straw looks good this year with long stems, good quality, and no seeds (as far as we know), we hope that any bird visits won't cause as much damage this year. Question: Already last year, bird experts stated in the media that the jackdaws would likely return. Have you consulted bird experts in preparation for the upcoming season? Answer: "We know the straw is of better quality this year. If the jackdaws return, we will monitor the situation and address it accordingly."

[howardhawkshollywoodmusic]

64. Homeward Bound by Simon and Garfunkel debuted Feb 66 and peaked at number five, scoring 909 points.

Sixteen of their 19 chart entries made the top 40. Their first, Hey Schoolgirl, was credited to Tom and Jerry, and peaked at number 47 in early 1958.

[dailyrothko]

No, the Popularity of Abstract Art is Not the Result of a CIA PsyOp

If you are unlucky enough to move around the internet these days and talk about art, you’ll find that many “First commenters” will hit you with what they see as some hard truth about your taste in art. Comments usually start with how modern art is “money laundering” always comically misunderstanding what that means. What they are saying is that, of course, rich people use investments as tax shelters and things like expensive antiques and art appraised at high prices to increase their net worth. Oh my god, I’ve been red-pilled. The rich getting richer? I have never heard of such a thing.

What is conveniently left out of this type of comment is that the same valuation and financial shenanigans occur with baseball cards, wine, vacation homes, guitars, and dozens of other things. It does indeed happen with art, but even the kind that the most conservative internet curator can appreciate. After all, Rembrandts are worth money too, you just don’t see many because he’s not making any more of them. The only appropriate response to these people who are, almost inevitably themselves, the worst artists you have ever seen, is silence. It would cruel to ask about their own art because there’s a danger they might actually enjoy such a truly novel experience.

When you are done shaking your head that you just subjected yourself to an argument about the venality of poor artists plotting to make their work valuable after they died, you can certainly then enjoy the accompanying felicity of the revelation they have saved to knock you off your feet: “Abstract art is a CIA PsyOp”

Here one must get ready either to type a lot or to simply say “Except factually” and go along your merry, abstract-art-loving way. But what are the facts? Unsurprisingly with things involving US government covert operations, the facts are not so clear.

Like everything on the internet, you are unlikely to find factual roots to the arguments about government conspiracies and modern art. The mere idea of it is enough to bring blossom for the “I’m not a sheep” crowd, some of whom believe that a gold toilet owning former president is a morally good, honest hard-working man of the people.

The roots of this contention come from a 1973 article in Artforum magazine, where art critic Max Kozloff wrote about post-war American painting in the context of the Cold War, centering around Irving Sandler’s book, The Triumph of American Painting (1970). Kozloff takes on more than just abstract expressionism in his article but condemns the “Self-congratulatory mood”of Sandler’s book and goes on to suggest the rise of abstract expressionism was a “Benevolent form of propaganda”. Kozoloff treads a difficult line here, asserting that abstraction was genuinely important to American art but that its luminaries, “have acquired their present blue-chip status partly through elements in their work that affirm our most recognizable norms and mores.”

While there were rumblings of agreements around Kozloff’s article of broad concerns, it did not give birth to an actual conspiracy theory at the time. The real public apprehension of this idea seems to mostly come from articles written by historian Frances Stonor Saunders in support of her book, “The Cultural Cold War: The CIA and the World of Arts and Letters” (New York, New Press, 2000). (I have not read this 525 page book, only excerpts).

The gist of Ms. Saunders argument is a tantalizing, but mostly unsupported, labyrinthine maze of back door funding and novelistic cloak and dagger deals. According to Saunders, the Congress for Cultural Freedom (CCF), an anti-communist cultural organization founded in 1950, was behind the promotion of Abstract art as part of their effort to be opinion makers in the war against communism. In 1966 it was revealed that the CCF was funded by the CIA. Saunders says that the CCF financed a litany of art exhibitions including “The New American Painting” which toured Europe in the late 1950s. Some of this is true, but it’s difficult, if not impossible, to know the specifics.

Noted expert in abstract-expressionism, David Anfam said CIA presence was real. It was “a well-documented fact” that the CIA co-opted Abstract Expressionism in their propaganda war against Russia. “Even The New American Painting [exhibition] had some CIA funding behind it,” he says. But the reasons for this are not quite what the abstract art detractors might be looking for. After all, the CCF also funded the travel expenses for the Boston Symphony Orchestra and promoted Fodor’s travel guides. More than trying to pull the wool over anyone’s eyes, it was meant to showcase the freedom artists in the US. enjoyed. Or as Anfam goes on to say, “It’s a very shrewd and cynical strategy, because it showed that you could do whatever you liked in America.”

For what it’s worth, Saunders’s book was eviscerated in the Summer 2000 issue of Art Forum at the time of its publication. Robert Simon wrote:

“Saunders draws extensively on primary and secondary sources, focusing on the convoluted money trail as it twists through dummy corporations, front men, anonymous donors, and phony fund-raising events aimed at filling the CCF’s coffers. She makes lengthy forays into such topics as McCarthyism, the formation and operation of the CIA, the propaganda work of the Hollywood film industry, and New York cultural politics—from Partisan Review to MoMA to Abstract Expressionism. Yet what seems strangely absent from Saunders’s panoramic history, as if it were a minor detail or something too obvious to require discussion, is the cultural object itself: The complex specifics of the texts, exhibitions, intellectual gatherings, paintings, and performances of the culture war are largely left out of the story.”

Another problem with the book seems to be that Saunders is an historian but not an art historian. For me, I sensed an overtone of superiority in the tale she’s spinning and most assuredly from those that repeat its conclusion. The thinly veiled message of some is that if it were “Real art” it would not have had be part of this government subterfuge. The reality is very different. For one thing, most of us know it is simply not true that you can make people devoted to a type of art for 100 years that they would sensibly hate otherwise. Another issue is that it’s quite obvious none of the artists actually knew about any government interference if there was any. Pollock, Rothko, Gottlieb and Newmann were all either communists or anarchists. Hardly the group one would recruit the help the US government free the world of communism. Additionally, this narrow cold war timeline ignores a huge amount of abstract art that Jackson Pollock haters also revile and consider part of the same hijacking of high (Frankly, Greek, Roman, or Renaissance) culture. If you look at the highly abstract signature work of Piet Mondrian and observe the dates they were painted, you’ll see 1908, 1914, 1916. This is some of the art denigrated as a CIA PsyOP, 35 years before the CIA even thought about it. Modern art didn’t come from nowhere as many would have you believe to discredit its rise. There was Surrealism, Dada, Bauhaus, Russian futurism and a host of other movements that fueled it.

Generally, people like to argue. On the internet, “I don’t like this” is a weak statement that always must be replaced by “This is garbage” or my favorite, “This is fake.”

It’s hardly surprising that the more conservative factions of our society look for any government involvement in our lives to explain why things are not exactly as they wish them to be, given the (highly ironic) conservative government-blaming that blew up after Reagan. In addition, modern fascists have always had a love affair with the classical fantasy of Greece and Rome. Both Mussolini and Hitler used Greece and Rome as “Distant models” to address their uncertain national identity. The Nazis confiscated more than 5,000 works in German museums, presenting 650 of them in the Entartete Kunst (Degenerate Art, 1937) show to demonstrate the perverted nature of modern art. It featured artists including Marc Chagall, Max Ernst, Wassily Kandinsky, and Paul Klee, among others. The fear of art was real. It was the fear of ideas.

To a lot of people on the internet just the mentioning a “CIA program” is enough to get the cogs turning, but as with many things, the reality of CIA programs and government plots is often less than evidence of well planned coup.

The CIA reportedly spent 20 millions dollars on Operation Acoustic Kitty which intended to use cats to spy on the Kremlin and Soviet embassies. Microphones were planted on cats and plans were set in motion to get the cats to surreptitiously record important conversations. However, the CIA soon discovered that they were cats and not agreeable to any kind of regulation of their behavior.

As part of Operation Mongoose the CIA planned to undermine Castro's public image by putting thallium salts in his shoes, which would cause his beard to fall out, while he was on a trip outside Cuba. He was expected to leave his shoes outside his hotel room to be polished, at which point the salts would be administered. The plan was abandoned because Castro canceled the trip.

Regardless of your feelings on this subject or how much you believe abstract art benefited from government dollars, Saunders herself quotes in her book a CIA officer apparently involved in these “Long leash” influence operations. He says, “We wanted to unite all the people who were writers, who were musicians, who were artists, to demonstrate that the West and the United States was devoted to freedom of expression and to intellectual achievement, without any rigid barriers as to what you must write, and what you must say, and what you must do.” Hardly the Illuminati plot we were promised.

In 2016, Irving Sandler, author of the book that started Kozloff tirading in 1973, told Alastair Sooke of The Daily Telegraph, “There was absolutely no involvement of any government agency. I haven’t seen a single fact that indicates there was this kind of collusion. Surely, by now, something – anything – would have emerged. And isn’t it interesting that the federal government at the time considered Abstract Expressionism a Communist plot to undermine American society?”

This blog post contains information and quotes sourced from The Piper Played to Us All: Orchestrating the Cultural Cold War in the USA, Europe, and Latin America, Russell H. Bartley International Journal of Politics, Culture, and Society, Vol. 14, No. 3 (Spring, 2001), pp. 571-619 (49 pages) https://www.bbc.com/culture/article/20161004-was-modern-art-a-weapon-of-the-cia https://brill.com/view/journals/fasc/8/2/article-p127_127.xml?language=en https://www.guggenheim-bilbao.eus/en/learn/schools/teachers-guides/the-dark-side-of-classicism https://www.artforum.com/features/american-painting-during-the-cold-war-212902/ https://www.independent.co.uk/news/world/modern-art-was-cia-weapon-1578808.html https://www.artforum.com/columns/frances-stonor-saunders-162391/ https://www.artforum.com/features/abstract-expressionism-weapon-of-the-cold-war-214234/ Mark Rothko and the Development of American Modernism 1938-1948 Jonathan Harris, Oxford Art Journal, Vol. 11, No. 1 (1988), pp. 40-50 (11 pages)

[doyoulikethissong-poll]

The Platters - Only You (And You Alone) 1955

"Only You (And You Alone)" is a pop song composed by Buck Ram. It was originally recorded by The Platters with lead vocals by Tony Williams in 1955. The Platters first recorded the song for Federal Records on May 20, 1954, but the recording was not released. In 1955, after moving to Mercury Records, the band re-recorded the song on April 26 and it scored a major hit when it was released in May. In November that year, Federal Records released the original recording as a single which sold poorly.

The song held strong in the number 1 position on the US R&B charts for seven weeks, and hit number five on the Billboard Top 100 chart. It remained on the charts for 30 weeks, beating out a rival cover version by The Hilltoppers. When the Platters track, "The Great Pretender" (which eventually surpassed the success of "Only You"), was released in the UK as Europe's first introduction to The Platters, "Only You" was included on the flipside. In the 1956 film Rock Around the Clock, The Platters participated with both songs, "Only You" and "The Great Pretender". The Platters re-recorded a slightly longer version of the song for Musicor Records in 1966, which features on the album I Love You 1,000 Times. In 1999, the 1955 recording of "Only You (And You Alone)" by The Platters was inducted into the Grammy Hall of Fame.

The song is featured in the 2018 video game Far Cry 5, where it is used as a form of classical conditioning on the main character, and can also be heard on one of the in-game radio stations and quietly echoing through the woods in some locations. It also appears in the seventh episode of the 2024 tv series Fallout. The 1966 re-recorded version of the song is featured in the 2024 film Deadpool & Wolverine.

"Only You (And You Alone)" received a total of 78,8% yes votes!

[fawnvelveteen]

Short skirts hit London, 1966

Carlo Bavagnoli/Life Picture Collection/Shutterstock

[user2772636]

Hate is *a strong word

(the wrong word)

You've been on eachothers throats since kindergarten. Now that college is coming, more competitions mean more rivalry. You can't keep bottling emotions cause they'll spill out.

Senior!Joseph Descamps x Senior!Reader

Warnings: swearing, smoking, ANGSTTT, two eyed joseph (sorry one eyed joseph lovers)

Reference to movie "Akeelah and The Bee"

Based on this request!!! @lovingaphroditesworld

Still based in Voltaire High, but mentions of some colleges and such

Champagne Coast - Blood Orange

Ever since you were little, you had an amazing mind. You won school competitions, aced all your exams, and were always the top of your class.

And with all of that came Joseph. He, too, had an amazing mind. So amazing, in fact, that you had started to doubt yourself, causing you to trip in the road of straight A's.

That's when you started to hate him. You hated his handwriting, his smile when he received a paper back with the plaster of a letter that makes you think he's catching up to you. Way too quick for your liking.

Then, when you hit middle school, you hated more things. You hated the way his glasses slipped a little when he was focused too much on his work or when his hair was all messed up when he played with his friends or runs late for an exam.

Of course, when high school came, you hated and hated away. You hate the way he's become twice your size, towering over you like some lampost. Or the way he talks to other girls with such arrogance. Or the smell of smoke that lingers when you walk by him.

That's the thing with Joseph. You hate him.

Now, when Joseph met you in kindergarten, he was head over heels. He loved the different ways you styled your hair. He loved it when you scrunched your nose at him. He loved your laugh and your chipped smile.

In middle school, he continued to love you. He loved it when he caught you staring, even though they were glares. He loved how invested you get when it comes to school. He even loved you when you got grumpy and mean.

But then high school happened. Things changed for him. He started to really notice how you saw him. Then he started to hate it. He hated that you hated him. And now, he hates you.

He hates when you ignore him after he's asked for a spare pen or when you don't care about the fact he's talking to other girls. And these girls were nothing compared to you.

He hates that you click your pen when you can't figure out a question or when you spend all your time in the library reading instead of taking in your high school years.

That's the thing with you. He hates you.

Now, with only one year left with you, he wouldn't even bother anymore.

January 12, 1966 - 7:51 am - Voltaire High

Students crowd the corridor, echoing sound of clicking heels, low laughing, and chatter. You keep your binders close to your chest as you walk up the massive stairwell.

Feeling a pair of eyes on you, you look up to the balcony expecting your friend, but your face drops as you see his glasses framed eyes.

You look away. One more year left, you think. Just one more year.

The bell rings once you make it to the main hallway, hurrying your steps to settle into English. Once you walk inside, a small group in the corner of the room goes quiet. You glance over and realise it's him again.

Joseph shushes his friends, clasping a hand over their mouths in order to keep them quiet. When he makes eye contact with you (again), he nods as a greeting. You only glare, making his friends snort quietly at him.

"I told you to stay quiet!" Joseph whisper shouts to his group.

"But your girlfriend-" Dupin starts, cut off with Joseph clasping his hand on the boys mouth again.

"She's not my girlfriend!" He scowls at Dupin.

You roll your eyes, and only then does Joseph realise how loud he was. He blushes (in frustration, of course) and hurries to his seat, eyes boring into the side of your head.

January 25, 1966 - 12:03 pm - Voltaire Library

It was peaceful. You had just been dismissed for your lunch break that you could still hear the footsteps and clatter of your fellow schoolmates. The sun was at its peak, the light cascading brightly even in winter through the tall windows of the library.

Only a few had been in the room with you, including your sweet librarian and her husband.

Scanning through a page of a philosophy book you've found, your eyes stop when you hear the loud creak of the door.

Slowly, you look up, catching three pairs of eyes looking at you. They quickly disappear, leaving you furrowing your eyebrows. Their identities are revealed when exactly those three boys waltz right in. You don't even try to fight the urge to roll your eyes.

Descamps' friend group whistle through their lips, eyes wandering everywhere but you. They scratch their head, fiddle with a pen or an apple.

Joseph's tall frame stands out from all of them. You mean, how could he not? Especially with his ash brown coloured hair glowing from the natural light.

Mrs. Beauforde, your librarian, looks at you and raises her brows as if asking. Do you want me to make them leave?

Just to make things easier for the older woman, you smile and shake your head no. You'd take care of this. You always have.

Getting up with your book in hand, you go back to the corner of the library where you found it. You hear the rather loud footsteps of the boys, and your head starts to hurt at their antics.

Slipping the book through an empty slot, you turn swiftly to catch them in the act. They spread out as if you hadn't caught them right then and there. Placing both hands on your hips, you slowly walk over to the boy you knew lead his.

"Joseph," You say, voice low like confronting a child. "Would you like to explain why you're stalking me?"

He looks at you, baffled. "Stalking you?" He chuckles, placing a hand on his chest. "You flatter yourself too much."

This only angers you. He's so arrogant it just makes you want to kiss slap his mouth shut.

You tongue your inner cheek to keep yourself from saying something that would get you in trouble.

"Leave me alone, Joseph. Schools almost over, you won't have to see me again. Give me a break." You sigh, looking down on both of your feet.

Honestly, you were getting a bit tired of his stuff. You're both seniors now, almost off to college, ready to take on the reality of being adults.

When you glance back up at him, there's a solemn look on his face.

To Joseph, he didn't want to stop. He couldn't. The thought of you never seeing eachother again made him feel heavier. He should be feeling free. There'd be no more competitions, no more distractions, and the feeling of being on top would be right there.

But he didn't feel that. He felt heavier. Like, if you were gone, there was no more trying to prove he's better than the best, or no more sneaking out with his friends to see what your up to, no more of those glares that he's grown to hate then grown to like.

So there he was, just staring at you like you were the only thing keeping him happy. The only thing that fills his mind.

It scares you.

"What?" You stutter out, scanning his face for something, anything that showed he wasn't feeling what you were thinking. But there's nothing. A chill rattles your spine even in the warmth that a library usually gives you.

He shakes his head, looking at you through those frames you've grown used to seeing slip on his beautiful nose.

He sighs, turning around and leaving you stood there.

You hadn't even noticed that his friends left, or that the librarian couple was staring at the both of you the whole time. It's as if the world disappears when he's there.

That makes you angry.

He's going to be a distraction. Now you're thinking that it's a good riddance he'd be gone by college, because if he'll be there, then you'll just get distracted because he's there being his handsome self.

You stomp away from the library, lunch break long over.

"When do you think they'll get together?" Mrs. Beauforde whispers to her husband.

Mr. Beauforde chuckles. "How long did it take you to finally like me back?"

Mrs. Beauforde rolls her eyes, a lingering smile on her face. Her eyes go back to the door you just left through.

"They remind me so much of us back then." Mr. Beauforde places a hand on his wife's shoulder.

"Well, look where we ended up." He grabs one of her hands gently, kissing it with much love and care.

Febuary 19, 1966 - 8:13 am - Voltaire High

An English Quiz Bee was set to take place in late Feburary and end in mid March, in the same week your school year ends.

The draft of students picked were top ten of your English class. Only 2 would be able to compete in the semi-finals.

Automatically, you're there. Automatically, he's there.

And obviously, you both win.

Today was Saturday, and you're on your way to school for your review with Ms. Couret when you accidentally slip on fresh ice.

You yelp in surprise, the solidity of the ground makes your back sting in pain. Luckily, you hadn't hit any area that would cause a concussion or sprain.

Just when you thought luck was by your side, Joseph rounds around the corner of the sidewalk you were in, stopping in his tracks at the sight of you.

When he finally did recognise you, he wasted no time helping you up and checking you for injuries.

"What are you doing out here? You know the ice hasn't fully melted yet, and you're just absentmindedly walking around. With nobody, might I add. You're going to kill me one day!" He exclaims, and you only furrow your eyebrows at his behaviour.

"Why do you care so much anyway? Don't you remember we have a review with Ms. Couret?" You ask, voice raised slightly at the simmering annoyance in your chest.

"I just came from school. The guard said Ms. Couret couldn't make it today; that she was supposed to tell us sooner but forgot." He matches your tone, his heavy breaths highlighted by the cold air making small clouds.

"Oh." Dead air fills around you. The empty streets covered in bright snow made you realise how cold it was, and you shiver from each breeze.

"I'll just go home then." You turn on your heel, ready to head back to your place when Joseph's deep voice gravels to your ears.

"Hey." Joseph calls. "She left me the reviewers. Do you want them?"

You turn around to see him making his way towards you. His forest green scarf goes up to his chin, nose and cheeks tinted pink. For the first time, you thought he had looked adorable.

You only nod, putting a hand out and receiving the papers. You skim your eyes through them to make sure that he was actually telling the truth, and gladly he was.

You turn to really walk back home now. After a few steps, you begin to notice the snow crunching behind you. You had to do a double take when you see Joseph's tall figure following.

"Why are you following me?" You stop again, facing him. He halts in surprise, brows raised.

"What? You have the reviewers. I need to review too, you know?" He shrugs.

You stare at him quizzically.

"So?"

"So what?" Joseph asks.

"So why are you following me? I'll just give them to you later in the afternoon."

"No, that'd just be a waste of time. Plus I've got... stuff to do this afternoon."

He rubs the back of his neck and looks away.

"What stuff?"

"Why do you have to know?"

You squint. You don't exactly have an answer for that. You don't even know why you asked.

"What's the plan here?" You don't answer his previous question.

"I review with you at your place."

Joseph. At your place. Your place.

"No!" You exclaim, throwing you hands up. "No way!"

"Why not?!" He mirrors you, scowling a bit.

"Because..." You linger at the reason. Again, you don't know what to say. Seems like that these days.

"Exactly. No answer. Let's go." He walks past you, bumping your shoulder gently. You watch him stride the sidewalk with confidence, looking side to side at the town buildings and shops.

Then he halts. He faces you.

"You coming?" He yells.

Why can't you say words anymore?

Febuary 19, 1966 - 9:38 pm - Your Flat

Thirteen hours. The review lasted for thirteen hours, and it's still going. You've gone through every page, every space, every comma, every period, consonant, vowel, silents letters, dictionaries, and encyclopedias; none of them were enough. You weren't enough.

"I'm a failure." You slump against the side of your bed. "I'm a total, utter failure."

Joseph fell asleep six times through the whole thing. Came right back up each smack from you and a delivery of espressos.

"If you were, you wouldn't be doing all of this." Joseph yawns as he slides down next to you.

You look back at him, smacking his shoulder for the thirty-sixth time. A lot of numbers are being counted.

Joseph hisses. "I'm gonna start to bruise if you keep doing that." He lifts his sleeve up, cuffing it to his collarbone before showing you. "See? It's already turning purple!"

You scoff out a laugh, looking away from embarrassment. The real reason you had looked away was because his arms were so very toned. Especially for a smartass like him. Your cheeks go pink. "Whatever."

He smiles at you, looking down at the floor and pressing a knee to his chin. Spending the whole day with you was not a part of his plan (It was actually exactly the plan, even if he didn't want to admit it, but it went longer than expected, not that he's complaining. He didn't even have a "thing" this afternoon.) His thoughts are cut off by you speaking.

"Wait." You furrow your brows, recounting every bit of information you've received that day. "Didn't you say you had a thing to do this afternoon?"

"Well... yeah but-" You gasp, standing up and grabbing his shoulders all the while. You drag him up and push him towards your door.

"Oh my god! It's already nine! Why didn't you say anything?!" You groan in frustration, continuously pushing Joseph to your living room now.

Joseph yelps as he trips over your red couch, tumbling down on the floor, his head thudding against your coffee table whilst he shouts afterwards. "Ow!"

"Fuck, Joseph!" You stumble on your feet, rushing to his side. There's no bleeding or bruises, surprisingly, but he seems a bit wonky.

"Oh my god, an angel. You're beautiful..." He mutters, hands reaching up to cup your cheeks. Your face feels hot, and you can tell how red you were right now. "I'm in heaven!"

"Get up, asshole!" You smack the same shoulder he was complaining about earlier, earning another hiss from him. He seems to get out of his daze when he locks eyes with you, his face going blank with boredom. "Oh, it's just you."

Your face goes from red of flattery to red of anger. You lift him up once again, going back to your original plan of pushing him out the door.

Once he's out, you slam your front door in front of him, getting a 'hey!' from the other side. After a while, you hear his footsteps retreating. You slide down the door in exhaustion, sliding a hand through your face.

You glance toward the kitchen, the sink full of dishes from earliers lunch. The pans on the stove that you two used to cook, and you remember Joseph burning himself cause he held a hot pan on accident then you having to take care of him afterwards.

You walk back to your bedroom, seeing the scattered papers, pens, and books. You remember finding Joseph lying fast asleep on your pillows, hugging them tightly. And as you tried to wake him up, berating him for his childish manners, he incoherently mutters some words that sounded like 'wait, it smells like you' and 'join me'. Obviously, it's very weird... you guess.

But that's whatever. You won't have to see his face when you go head to college. You won't have to hear his voice, go through those ridiculous pranks, or find him in corners with his friends catching his eye following your moves.

Oh, how you wish you'd see him again.

March 5, 1966 - 7:48 am - Annual SHS English Quiz Bee Semi-Finals

Nothing made sense anymore. Growing up, it had been etched in your mind that you were made for this place. Every test you've aced, every activity you've cooperated in.

So when you receive the letter that you were rejected from your dream college, nothing made sense anymore.

You spaced out so much that day you didn't even hear your mom trying to get you to eat a bit faster, or your dad telling you you arrived. It took them raising their voices and nudging you a bit.

It seemed scary. Nothing made you budge. You were so stuck in your head from disappointment that you couldn't get a grasp of yourself in the real world. You felt stuck-

"Hey."

He didn't need to raise his voice. He didn't need to nudge you. He didn't need to call for you multiple times so you could snap out of your trance. One word was all Joseph needed to get you out of your head.

"Hi." You whisper, trying to get yourself composed once you've realised where you were.

Seats were filling the gymnasium up. Families and friends come in to support their kids. You spot your own parents in the crowd, nodding to them in greeting before your eyes go back to Joseph.

You don't even realise your leg was shaking until Joseph put a palm down on it. You sighed a breath of air you hadn't even known you were holding.

"You better be good, Y/N, or all that reviewing went for nothing."

You couldn't help but laugh at this, but having the rejection in the back of your mind made you have second thoughts.

You really shouldn't try anymore anyway. If your dream college rejected you, why would you even try anymore?

All of these questions came back to your mind, so once again, you're stuck in your trance, but this time, Joseph doesn't snap you out. He knows you'll make sense of it all at your own pace, whatever you're thinking about.

It's like clockwork. One by one, students leave the stage from their loses, each of them wearing a solemn face. And like clockwork, it's the two of you again.

"With only three minutes in the clock, two students both from Voltaire High compete head to head. Who will move on to the finals?" The commentator announces. The audience bounce in their seats in suspense. Your stomach flips over, and you feel like gagging.

Question one was for Joseph. He aced it, looking smug as always when he came back to his seat next to you. Two minutes left.

Question two was for you.

"What is the term used for the second to the last in a series?"

Penultimate. It's Penultimate.

"A. Ultimate,"

It's penultimate.

"B. Penultimate,"

It's B.

"C. Antepenultimate,"

It's B. It's Penultimate.

"Or D. None of the above."

"Letter C."

They know I'm wrong. I know I'm wrong.

Joseph knows I'm wrong.

"Incorrect. The answer is B, penultimate." I knew that. I knew the answer. But it didn't matter anymore. This competition didn't matter. I can't get into the college of my dreams, then I won't try anymore.

"Score is now a tie. The next round will be a speed test with only one minute left on the clock." They bring out papers and desks to our place on the stage. I glance at Joseph, and he's staring at me as if I just grabbed his heart and stomped on it.

"You knew." He says, barely even muttering.

"Knew what?" I squint at him, the bright lights of the spot light hurting my eyes.

"You knew the answer." He doesn't look away. He doesn't look mad. He seems sad about it. Disappointed.

"... yeah." You sigh simply. You couldn't lie to him, seeing as he already knew. In fact, you've spent so much time with him your whole life and you only realised now. He could probably know you more than you know yourself. If only he wasn't so self-absorbed.

"Y/N." You nod in acknowledgement, not daring to face him right now.

"Look at me." His voice got softer, and you help but peek at the worry now displaying on his face. He seems so serious about what he was gonna say.

"You do your best." He purses his lips for a moment, and my throat starts to dry. The way he still wants me to keep going is startling.

"You do your best, or I don't want it." He's so close. Close to winning, close to me. There's a feeling lying under my brain. Under all those studies and all those infuriating words. Like I still want to see him next year. Like I've never wanted to stop looking at his face or hearing his voice.

But I can't. I've gone too far hating him to stop. He sees me as someone who can't stand him, who can't wait to get rid of him. Only now I've thought that maybe I hurt him. Now I care. Now, when it's too late.

So I just nod. And I listen.

And...

"It's a tie..." The commentator murmurs, going over the two pieces of paper me and Joseph finished. Confusion hovers over the crowd, not quite hearing what the commentator said.

"I-It's a tie! The two Voltaire High students have tied!" Gasps spread throughout the people. None of them would've thought this would happen.

"It's just been announced to me there will be a private second tie breaker tomorrow morning, of course, unless one of them backs out." Slowly, almost carefully, cheers and claps echo against the walls of the centre.

This was too much. You'd back out the second you got off. That second started now.

You sped walk to the backstage, trying to find your way to the commentator. Joseph was hot on your tail.

"Y/N! Where are you going?" He yells from the crowd of backstage personell. He speeds up just enough to grab your wrist.

"You're going too fast. Slow do-" The smile wipes off his face when he sees the tears running down your face. His brows crease in worry, searching your eyes for a sign of reason.

"Hey, hey, hey. Why don't we go to a more private area?" He does know you too well.

Autumn in the second grade. When Joseph still loved you and you still hated him. He found you crying in a corner near one of the bathrooms. He walked up to you that day, shrugging off his worry of your fury.

"Hey, are you okay?" He said nonchalantly, trying not to seem genuinely upset at you being genuinely upset.

You look up, teary-eyed. "Go away, Joseph."

Of course, he ignored you. Like stubborn little kids do. And he sits next to you, knees touching each other. Your tiny beating heart couldn't handle the speed of it, but it felt so nice you didn't say anything.

"I like to be alone when I cry, too..." Joseph trails off. "My mommy tells me I can't go out too much because one time a bee bit my eye, and it got puffy. She said I wasn't her beautiful boy anymore and took me to many doctors, just so she could have her beautiful boy back."

You puff out your cheeks, wiping away dried tears from them. You look down at your lap.

"I think you're a beautiful boy always. Even when you're annoying." He scrunches his nose at this.

"I'm not annoying!" He squints his eyes at you, but he sees you laughing, and he doesn't seem annoyed anymore.

He huffs and looks away. "I-I think you're a very beautiful girl, too. Always." He whispers so quietly that even if you were so close, you couldn't hear.

"What?" You say as you sniffle, looking at him with eyes he'd describe as something he'd purposefully drown in.

"N-Nothing!" He stutters out, gets up, and runs away. That was when you thought to yourself for the first time that he wasn't so bad.

You nod at his words, wiping the tears of your face. He took you to a changing room, which was gladly wide enough so you had enough space to relax. The huge couch in it helped, too.

You plop yourself down, sighing heavily. You control your breathing and close your eyes. You feel the couch dip beside you.

"...you wanna talk about it?" Joseph mutters out after a few minutes of silence.

"I'm gonna back out." You say, not bearing to see the way he was looking at you right now. You felt it seep through the room, the way he tensed next to you.

"What do you mean?" There's a shake in his voice that indicates he's unsure.

"I'm backing out." You repeat.

"...why?" You can hear it. He's angry. What does he have to be angry about?

"What do you have to be angry about?" You furrow your brows, getting enough courage to look at his frustrated face. Or worried.

"What do I have to be angry about? Y/N you- You've been talking and reviewing non-stop for this, and suddenly, you're backing out!" He stands and towers over you, and you're back in middle school still hating it.

"Yeah, well, you have no right! Plus, since I'm out, then you're in. You should be celebrating or preparing or whatever the fuck you want to be doing!"

"Why should I be celebrating when all I'm gonna be thinking about is that you're backing out for no fucking reason?!"

"Well then, stop thinking about me! You hate me that much anyway!" Joseph flinches back, a rabid emotion in his eyes.

"You've got to be kidding me." He's muttering to himself again.

"What now?" You groan out, annoyed by his previous habit.

"Me? Hating you? After all the shit we've gone through?"

What does he mean? You squint your eyes at his approaching frame.

"Sure, I hated the way you looked at me sometimes. Or the way you're always so close to beating me. Hell! I hate it when you beat me!"

You back off each step he takes closer, making your back almost near to the wall.

"But I loved you, Y/N. I love you."

No. No, no, no, no, no. No fucking way.

"Yeah. I love you. I hate that I love you. I love you so much that I hate you. The way we are, it's killing me, Y/N. Fucking ripping my heart apart everytime we keep this shit up."

You trip over your feet, the wall thudding as you exhale. A gasp gets caught on your throat when Joseph cages you in.

"You're staying in. I'm gonna go up to the commentator and tell him I'm backing out, and you're staying in. Do you understand?"

You couldn't speak. He was so close. The details you haven't seen in a decade still stay on his face. His beautiful face. Always a beautiful face.

"Do you fucking understand?!" He rasps, shaking your shoulders in desperation. He tugs his head down. "Please..."

"Yes." You couldn't help the crack on your voice. What was happening, whatever it was, you couldn't handle right now.

"Smart girl." He whispers in your ear. Then, he's gone.

March 7, 1966 - 6:32 am - Annual SHS English Quiz Bee Finals

The light patter of rain hits the windows of your car, the windshield wipers squeaking each left and right turn. The car is quiet, only sounds of water falling, and Elvis Presley's "Can't Help Falling in Love" on the radio.

"I've always seen the way he looked at you, you know?" Your father's words fill your ears. You turn your head to the drivers seat where his hands are posted on the wheel.

"What?" You ask. Your father was a man of few words, but he was always there, and always will be.

"Joseph." There's a pang on your chest. "I'm assuming that's why you were in a sour mood while we celebrated?"

You don't acknowledge him. He keeps going.

"Since the first day of school, there was something that drew him to you. Of course, I was a bit sceptical. I mean, you were my little girl. Still my little girl." He chuckles to himself, stopping the car when a road sign comes by.

"Now you're all grown up." He turns his head to look at you, letting go of the steering wheel. You look up at him hesitantly, awaiting what words would come out of his solemn mouth.

"I have to hand it to him. He's a tough kid, waiting all these years and still not trying to steal your heart."

He smacks his lips in thought, shaking his head at whatever was going on in his head.

"I'm not gonna tell you what to do. I'm gonna let you figure all this out. But let me tell you one thing." He leans in close, and you can feel the warmth of his parenthood radiate to you. "He's gonna love the hell out of you. I sure do."

The light goes green, and he drives with caution like a dad always does.

And you sit there because your dad is right. But he's wrong, too.

You always caught Joseph staring. Always caught him lingering near. Throughout preschool, middle, and high. Now college is near and you don't think you can live without that sense of him.

That supports your dad being wrong. Joseph didn't need to try to steal your heart. He already had.

"Stop the car." You blurt out. Your heart's beating more and more rapid, and you can feel it through your chest.

"What?" He mimics a question you asked earlier.

"Dad, stop the car!" The wheels squeel as they stop to the side of the road.

"What's wrong?" Your dad worries, checking to see if you're alright.

"I have to get him." You look at your dad, and all he can see is his little girl with that glimmer in her eyes when she knows what she wants. "I have to get Joseph."

He looks at you. He smiles. "I knew you'd come to your senses."

He turns the car around, heading back to town with a new objective.

And when you get there, the rain pours heavier, your heart drums faster in your ears, and all you can feel is adrenaline.

And all you hear is ringing. Even when he shows up with his head of hair messy and eyes squinting down at you. You answer even when you can't hear.

"Please." You pant. Your senses seem to come back, and you feel the clinging of wet clothes on your body, the rain hitting the porch roof. "Please come."

"Y/N-" You cut him off, grabbing his collar and connecting your lips onto his like a full blow.

Everything feels like it's on fire, the cold you felt earlier gone, and it feels like it would be forever.

You don't wait for him to kiss you back, pulling away with desperation in your eyes mixed with a bit of craze.

Joseph opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out except noises from the back of his throat like he was choking. You slowly let go of his collar, and he pulls away, back to towering over you.

He pulls two fingers up to his lips, his ajar mouth staying in place for so long that you worry if it's hurting yet.

"Wait here." He closes the door, brows furrowed in determination. The door slams, and you flinch just a bit. Not a second later, he's in front of you again, pulling you in to another kiss.

This lasted a bit longer than the other one, a bit rough around the edges from the unexpectancey of it.

"God, you're gonna kill me one day." He pulls away, closing the door again.

6:58 am

The drive there was extremely awkward. You were sat in front of your father, who was oblivious to what had just happened between you and the boy in the backseat. The silence was so tense you could cut it with a knife.

Joseph, bless his pretty heart, took with him spare uniform for you; which of course, you insisted it wouldn't fit, and he said he didn't want to see you sopping wet on the stage. So, here you are now.

"Ready kid?" Your dad asks, adjusting the too large cuffs of Joseph's uniform on your body. You look up at him, lips pursed in focus.

"Ready." You turn your head to look up at Joseph. Your dad seems to get what you want to do, excusing himself to go look for the seats.

"Hey." You say quietly, the bustling noise behind the curtains almost covering it up. Almost.

"Hi." He replies, a small smile upturned on his lips.

You cast a glimpse from the crack between the large curtains, seeing the number of people seated and walking.

"Y/N." Joseph mutters, mouth near your ear, and only then did you notice he had leaned down next to you, taking a look where your eyes were.

"Joseph, look-" He cuts you off with a small peck on your lips.

"Not now. Go focus on this and win like you always do, alright?" He cups your cheek and his hand is so warm you'd have fallen asleep right there and then.

You nod absentmindedly.

"Okay, well, good luck. Except you don't even need it." He winks, leaning back and exiting the backstage. You stay stunned in your place that you hadn't even heard the stage manager calling you to come up.

And then you aced it. All questions answered with no mistake, all glares from opponents ignored. You and the rest of the audience couldn't even believe you with the pace that you were going at. All you knew was you were there to win.

"Last question, Ms. Y/N." Here it goes.

"What is the term used for the second to the last in a series?"

Holy shit.

"A. Ultimate,"

No way.

"B. Penultimate,"

You were gonna win.

"C. Antepenultimate,"

You glance up at the audience, and you catch his eye immediately.

You do your best, or I don't want it.

"B. Penultimate."

"Ms. Y/N L/N, you are the winner of this years SHS English Quiz Bee. Congratulations!"

Cheers erupt in the stadium. Flashes of cameras blind your view, but you could only look at him. Even when the trophy was handed to you, even when the cameramen asked you to look their way.

You quickly handed the award to the competitions administrator, leaping and jumping down the stage to reach him. He was already halfway towards you.

You colide on the stair platform, the impact making him fall on the floor, his arms wrapped securely around you. You clutch on his head to remind yourself that this was real. You had won the Quiz Bee, and you had wont his heart, too.

With the sun almost fully set, the crowd slowly dissipates from the large parking lot. Your father had made his way to start the car, leaving you and Joseph in front of the buildings main entrance.

"So..." You mutter, already know what's about to happen.

"So?" He mirrors, a small smile finding a way into his face.

"Joseph, I'm sorry." Tears pool in your eyes. "I hated you so much, and I was so blind to see that you were right in front of me all along. I care a lot, and even when I was being a bitch you still stayed. How can you even like me still? How did you even like me at all?"

Joseph sighs deeply, hands coming down to hold onto yours. "I don't care about all that stuff anymore. You're here and with me. And hopefully... not hate me anymore?"

You can't help but chuckle. "Oh, I still hate you."

He raises his brows at you. "Well, that's better than nothing, right?"

You scoff with a smile. "You're stupid."

He squints down at you. "Well, if I recall, I almost beat you in the semi-"

You grab his collar and pull him down to a kiss. You don't think you'd ever get rid of that first-time kind of feeling.

He holds you like he doesn't want to let go, but does it so gently as if you'd break the second he grips too hard. And you like it. Because he cares.

Summer in kindergarten. The type of heat that choked you to the point all you wanted was a large watermelon shake to cool you off.

The same summer that was nearing the end of school. The same summer, you overheard your parents talking about moving to someplace else. The same summer you told your friends about it. The same summer Joseph knew he wasn't ready to ever let you go.

He found you in your classroom, hair all tied up whilst you were drawing on a piece of paper. Joseph hadn't ever seen something so beautiful. You were like art he could never take his eyes away from. But that summer he thought he had to, because you were leaving.

"Y/N..." His small voice caught your attention. You look up at this little boy in front of you, his face showing that his heart is currently in his sleeve. You couldn't help but worry.

"Joseph? What's wrong?" Sure you didn't really like the guy, but you were a decent human being.

He sits down next to you, trying to control his breathing. "Don't go." His eyes start to wet, and it gets blurry.

"Joseph, what do you mean?" You furrow your eyebrows, slowly going forward to hold onto his hand.

"Don't go to Italy. Don't leave me. I haven't- I haven't told you about-" how he felt. "Please dont go."

"Joseph, I-" I don't want to go either. "Stop crying..." You're hurting me.

He goes forward and holds you as he sobs on your shoulder. He held you so gently you could've fallen asleep, but so firm that you couldn't even run away. You didn't want to.

That's how Joseph was. He had always loved you. And deep in your heart, you had always loved him too.

>>>>>

A/N: this took me MONTHS???? and im still not satisfied but i need to get this out for bae (sorry it took so long) ummmmm very good very yes, yes? Akeelah and the bee is so cute and lowk so them, they r so messy but wtv guys theyre together now love them. Y/N so stupid but its for the plot guys ok. Hope u guys liked it bcs this took so long for no reason. Happy reading!!!

[hussyknee]

TIL the Australian guy that put on the single greatest piece of improv theater ever caught on camera during his wrongful arrest passed away this August from cancer.

For those who don't know: in 1991 an investigator who suspected this man of credit card fraud called the cops on him at the Chinese restaurant where he was dining with a friend. To expedite the arrest, he led the police to believe they were arresting a high profile criminal of some sort.

Police surrounded the restaurant, corralled the waiting media (who had somehow gotten wind), and interrupted Karlson's lunch.

"He was as calm as anything," former police detective Adam Firman says of the moment he arrested Karlson in the restaurant.

"He was happy to go with us. Well, as happy as you can be, to be arrested. Until he saw all the media. And that's when he just went berserk."

The lines Karlson delivered have since become classic quotes in internet culture.

"Gentlemen, this is democracy manifest!" Karlson declares to the cameras as he's wrestled into the police car.

...

"As soon as we drove away, he stopped and he said, 'That was fun,'" Firman says.

"There was no fight getting him out of the car. Nothing. It was all put on for the cameras."

The drama behind the rant

The Brisbane police who arrested him that day didn't know that Karlson had been a criminal and a serial prison escapee. He was also a part-time actor.

By the time he was 34, Karlson had spent most of his life in homes and prisons.

His first escape was in 1966. He was on a train going from Boggo Road Gaol to face a breaking, entering and stealing charge at Maryborough Magistrates Court. He got out of his handcuffs and jumped off.

Two years later, after he had been locked up in McLeod Prison Farm on Victoria's French Island for another theft, he convinced a local fisherman to give him a lift to the mainland.

Three months after that, he was picked up in a stolen car carrying safe-breaking tools in Parramatta. Just before his trial, he impersonated a detective and walked out of his court cell. Finally, he was captured in an apartment on Sydney's North Shore.

That's when his life took a dramatic left turn.

Sentenced to eight years in Parramatta Gaol, Karlson was put in an unusually large cell with an inmate named Jim McNeil.

This chance encounter would become destiny manifest.

McNeil had heard about Karlson impersonating a detective, and he thought it was hilarious.

He welcomed Karlson into his cell. The two men bonded over making foul-tasting alcohol in the cell's washbasin from raisins and yeast, and shared histories.

They had both grown up poor, even by the standards of their rough-and-tumble neighbourhoods. Adults had abused them physically and sexually. And they'd both stolen and scammed a few shillings for their families when they saw the chance.

After encouragement from Karlson, McNeil wrote a play about cellmates who brewed grog. They put it on in prison, and Karlson played a leading role.

Both had discovered talents they didn't know they had. McNeil kept writing on his smuggled typewriter, and Karlson kept acting. The plays became a hit among young Sydney intellectuals, many who had been campaigning for prisoners' rights.

Within four years, their work got them out on parole a combined 13 years early.

Best friends

Karlson and McNeil's friendship continued outside the prison gates and they moved into a house in Richmond together.

The two men stuck out like sore thumbs in their new-found scene of artists and intellectuals.

Neither man had set foot in a theatre, but McNeil's plays were already being performed across Australia. He felt that, with the success of his plays, he'd never need to resort to crime again. On radio and in the press, he would give didactic rants about the brutality of the justice system.

Karlson, meanwhile, got parts in the prime-time crime dramas Homicide and Matlock Police.

They remained close.

"The lovely bloke. I love him," McNeil told an interviewer around the same time Karlson named his son Jim McNeil Karlson.

Karlson described them as best friends.

But McNeil's alcoholism killed him in 1982.

Karlson couldn't travel to the funeral in Sydney for legal reasons.

"I … with a bodgie [fake identity], booked up hundreds and hundreds of dollars worth of flowers and wreaths," he says.

Final days

McNeil's plays weren't subtle. They were screeds aimed at a society that arrested and tormented unfortunate men for petty crimes.

"The message is: look what you're doing to people," he told one interviewer.

He went on to tell a story about an Aboriginal cellmate. "He was illiterate, he was poor. He had nothing. And he stole thruppence ha'penny. And then he got three and a half years. That's a penny a year.

"Prison is the best way to show what's wrong with the outside."

His final play was about two cellmates in Parramatta. He named it 'Jack', and finished it in a drunken haze.

"Do you know I'm here?" shouts Jack the character. "Do you give a f*** where I am? No. No, you don't give a f*** where I am. Pricks. Democrats."

Fifteen years later, Jack Karlson declared "Gentlemen, this is democracy manifest!" to the waiting cameras and an enduring audience.

It would be his most unforgettable performance.

From 7news:

So how did Karlson improvise a performance so poetic, so theatrical and so amusing?

“Of course, I was somewhat influenced by the juice of the red grape."

Karlson spent his last years as a painter, incidentally selling many paintings of his own infamous arrest, and helping make a documentary about his life that's yet to be released. He died aged 82, surrounded by family and was widely mourned.

"Tata and farewell" legend. Hope the internet never forgets you. ACAB forever.