#husband back solution in uk

[jh-newman-opn]

with regards to the poll:

I voted yes, because I believe a woman should have the right to terminate a pregnancy no matter the circumstances. I do not believe the state should have the right to force anyone to have or terminate their pregnancy. And of the alternative, would it be to force the mother to carry the child to term? Either they’ll end up being raised by someone who didn’t want them in the first place or put up for adoption. The issue fundamentally stems from patriarchy and preventing an abortion does little to stem the effects, other than making impact a child who is born rather than preventing the birth of a fetus.

I don’t think it’s hypocrisy to hold the consistent belief that a voluntary procedure should not be denied, no matter the reason. And I think the comparison to thalidomide and alcohol is a bit disingenuous, seeing as the concerns with those are e effects on children who are born, as opposed to abortions which are, by nature, not born.

Ultimately the practice of preferring and selecting for male pregnancies stems from the deep roots of patriarchy, and preventing abortions is not going to stop the problem so much as it will pass it onto the unwanted daughters who will be forced to be born.

no I'm sorry this is solipsistic paper academia nonsense. Banning sex-selective abortion is a normal and reasonable response that countries often take when this happens because it's abhorrent and widespread.

If you thought the thalidomide/alcohol comparison was disingenuous, then how about bride-burning? You may as well be arguing: "well, husbands setting their wives on fire is tragic and not a decision I'd personally make in marriage, but the alternative is that those women have to suffer through marriages in which they're unhappy because their husband doesn't want them anyway. Husbands not liking their wives is fundamentally a misogyny problem, which won't be solved by legislating against setting your wife on fire if you decide she's not exactly the way you wanted her. Men will just find other ways to kill their wives which are less culturally accepted than burning them alive, so we should focus on the root problem of systemic misogyny and let husbands do what they see fit with their wives in the meantime." Killing is not a proportionate response to a child or spouse having a characteristic you don't personally like, and saying that people should be able to give or take life based on completely spurious-- and as you yourself pointed out, entirely bigoted grounds-- is just abhorrent.

You seemed to miss the point where I said that the cultural practice of permitting sex-selective abortions is comorbid with female children being killed and neglected. THESE THINGS HAPPEN IN TANDEM because people take a legal permission or a tacit lack of enforcement as encouragement for their pre-existing beliefs. In India, as per the paper I linked, sex-selective abortion is technically illegal but culturally accepted and the ban is unenforced, which is where we see the frequent mistreatment of unwanted female children. In the UK, the practice is illegal and enforced, and we do not have the same problem. If you're going to make claims about "xyz policies lead to abc effects" you should be citing sources to back that up like I did in my original post rather than just making assertions as if they're factual. Banning sex-selective abortion is a necessary stage in socially decriminalising being female and solving the misogyny problem that you aptly point out, and then propose zero solutions to. like, if your experience of unacceptable misogyny is limited to things that can be rectified with a bit of social campaigning then I get why the measures required to hoist a culture out of the systemic murder of female adults, children, and babies might seem a bit radical. "oh well if we ban xyz people will keep doing it illegally" ok let's just unban murder entirely. why ban anything at all if bans do nothing to stop a thing happening or change people's opinions about whether a thing is bad.

Furthermore, your point about "forcing the mother to carry the child to term" is just bonkers. If we were talking about abortion as a whole, fine, but this is specifically about sex-selective abortion. The whole notion of "consent to x is not consent to y" is completely indefensible if you're trying to extend it to the point of "consent to carry a male child to term is not consent to carry a female child to term" (or the inverse!).

Finally, I deeply loathe the phrase "forced to be born". "Disabled people should not be forced to be born" "women should not be forced to be born" "people who will grow up in poverty should not be forced to be born" I'm sorry but being born is not a traumatic event for the child that ought to be avoided, what you're saying here is that people should not exist if they're going to have difficult lives, that it is preferable for someone to not live at all than to live in a suboptimal manner. I completely empathise with the feeling that people should not be forced to spend their lives in situations of extreme hardship but saying that they shouldn't be "forced to be born" is equivalent to saying that people are better off dead than poor/female/disabled/fill in the blank. You're saying that the most ethical thing is for human life to continue until the point at which it might start to endure suffering, at which point it ought to be terminated. The best thing you can do for people is to end their lives before they experience hardship. We can have debates about whether a foetus counts as a person or not until we're blue in the face, but it's an unavoidable fact of the phase "nobody should be forced to be born" that it encapsulates this bizarre idea that a) the event of birth is the beginning of suffering and b) the most humane thing for us rational thinking adults to do is to end life before that point.

[sweetdreamsjeff]

Jeff Buckley in the U.K.

Jim Irvin, 'From Hallelujah to the Last Goodbye' (Post Hill), May 2018

Excerpted from Jeff Buckley: From Hallelujah to the Last Goodbye by Jeff's former manager Dave Lory and former MOJO man Jim Irvin (Post Hill Press).

JEFF BUCKLEY loved British music; the nervous energy in British punk, the wired consciousness of the Clash, the way Siouxsie and the Banshees went from gun-metal moodiness to skies full of fireworks.

He adored the Cocteau Twins, of course, especially Liz Fraser's "impossible voice". He loved how the Smiths called to outsiders and nerds. He loved the textures of Johnny Marr's supple guitar and the mordant presence of Steve Jones's guitar in the Sex Pistols.

Jeff, whose own nervous energy was considerable, became even more wired whenever we went to the UK; he was stimulated by its variety. He also appreciated its compactness – the lack of eight-hour drives between cities was refreshing.

Sony had passed on Live at Sin-é in Europe. We were understandably disappointed, but there was a solution close at hand: Steve Abbott, known to everyone as Abbo, who ran the eccentric indie record label Big Cat and had picked up on many of the promising un-signed bands playing in New York: Pavement, Mercury Rev, Luscious Jackson. He had approached Jeff after Gods & Monsters and Sin-é shows and asked him if he'd like to record with Big Cat, but then Sony stepped in. Jeff felt that he owed Abbo a record, so when Columbia UK passed on Live at Sin-é and Michele Anthony instigated a funding deal with Big Cat, it seemed the perfect opportunity for them to become involved. Abbo jumped at the chance.

Big Cat's small team – Abbo, co-owner Linda Obadiah, Frank Neidlich in marketing, and Jacqui Rice in press – did such a good job that the week it was released in Europe, Live at Sin-é sold over four thousand copies, which was amazing for a complete unknown.

After a Sony conference, where it was clear that a lot of the affiliates were bemused by him, Jeff had a warm-up show at Whelan's in Dublin. By the time he came on, the crowd, several drinks into its evening, had become a little boisterous. Jeff said hello softly, as usual, but no one was really paying attention. Jeff just stood there, waiting. People started to quieten down and watch to see what he would do. There was a pint of his favourite beer, Guinness, sitting on the stool next to him. Jeff lifted the glass to his lips and downed it in one hit. Everyone on the room cheered, and he began the Irish show with the crowd completely on his side.

The audience was more blasé the next night at his London debut at The Borderline, a Western-themed venue under a dubious Mexican diner in Soho, right in the heart of London, a group of local reps for hip American indie labels like Sub Pop and Merge yacking away rather disrespectfully at the bar. In the age of grunge, a lone guy with a guitar softly singing Edith Piaf covers was baffling for some.

"It was an epiphany for me," says Sara Silver, Sony's European head of marketing. "There are some shows where it just feels like you're a voyeur, looking into someone's soul. This was one of those. He was charismatic, but also haunting, and I think because of my particular situation at the time, still suffering from the [loss of my husband], he resonated hugely. This haunting sound was a powerful force, and it was my job to work out how we took it to the world."

A gig the next night in Glasgow meant an early-morning flight back to Heathrow the following morning to catch a session with GLR, London's local BBC station, a slot designed to alert people to the next couple of gigs at the Garage in Islington and at Bunjies, a cute little basement folk club in Central London that dated back to the early 1960s and made Sin-é seem generously proportioned.

Abbo was accompanying Jeff on this run.

"We'd meet regularly at a bar called Tom & Jerry's in New York, hang out and drink Guinness together," Abbo says, "I suppose I became a friend of his, and he didn't seem to have many real friends. I'd only discovered I liked the blues since living in New York, so it was great hanging with him, because he was a huge blues and jazz fan and if there was a guitar around he had to pick it up and show off. He knew every Robert Johnson song, every Muddy Waters tune, Bessie Smith; he introduced me to the physicality of the blues, watching it at close quarters. Everybody talks about his voice, but he was a brilliant guitarist. The guitar was an extension of his body.

"Tim Buckley hadn't really entered my line of vision growing up listening to black music. Singer-songwriters with fluffy hairstyles were not currency on my council estate in Luton! We were in Tom & Jerry's and someone said to Jeff, 'I've been listening to your dad,' and I said, 'Who's your dad?' and he said, 'Tim Buckley.' I knew the name from record shopping; I'd seen the sleeves in the racks, but that's it. But when he came over to Britain there were loads of Tim Buckley fans. And it was a real problem early on, because he really didn't like talking about him."

The traffic from the airport to the GLR studios just off Baker Street was awful. A road accident had slowed everything to a standstill. Jeff's slot on the mid-morning show was fast approaching. "Of course, this was before mobile phones, so I had no way of communicating with the radio station that we were stuck in traffic," says Abbo. "For the last few days on this tour, everyone who'd interviewed Jeff had been asking about his dad. How did Tim write 'Song To The Siren'? Was there stuff in his lyrics that he might have related to? Things Jeff couldn't answer.

"We were listening to GLR while we waited in traffic and the presenter kept saying, 'We're supposed to have this artist, Tim Buckley's son, turning up, but he's late....Will he or won't he turn up?' This went on and on. She must have said 'Tim Buckley's son' about four times and didn't mention Jeff once. Suddenly, he just kicked my car radio in with his big DMs [Doc Martens], just smashed the fascia and then sat back sulking all the way there. I could get another radio, of course, but I was mostly worried he wasn't going to do the performance. 

"We finally arrived about forty minutes late and they were all so rude to us, and yet they knew what the problem was, as they were broadcasting traffic updates and warnings of delays themselves. If I were him, I'd have walked out. The female presenter was a typical local radio DJ, a bit gushy and knew nothing about him and his music. I had a word with the station manager to ask her to stop mentioning Tim Buckley, and he handed her a note to that effect. Jeff just sat there silently and she said, 'What are you going to play?' and Jeff said, 'A song.' I'm thinking, 'Oh god, here we go.' And he started to play "Grace." He did this long guitar introduction, went on for about a minute, like he needed to calm himself down before he got to the actual start of the song, and then he launched into the most electrifying performance. The best I ever heard him do it.

"There were about six phones in the control room, and they all started lighting up. 'Who is this? Who is this? It's amazing!' And all the time, Jeff's getting more and more into it. The presenter went from being this standoffish woman to...I swear she would have thrown herself on him given half a chance, the second he finished singing. You could see she was totally enthralled."

Presenter: "You looked quite exhausted at the end of the song."

Jeff: "I was getting a lot of anger out. Something happened on the way here..."

"The phones didn't stop throughout the next song. The station manager said that in all his twelve years at the station, he'd never seen a reaction like it."

Abbo thinks this performance sparked Jeff's breakthrough. There were certainly plenty of people in line outside the Garage in North London that night. Inside, the first stars were taking note. Chrissie Hynde and Jon McEnroe were in the audience. Chrissie had been a big fan and a friend of Tim's, had actually interviewed him while she was briefly a music journalist with the NME, and she was obviously curious to see how his offspring compared. They struck up a conversation after the show and she clearly said the right thing, because he went off with her to jam with the Pretenders in a nearby rehearsal room. I wasn't carrying anything heavy because of a recent lung collapse, and I didn't want Jeff to pull any important muscles, so I asked McEnroe if he wouldn't mind. He happily hauled Jeff's amp downstairs to the car. The Pretenders' jam with special guests Buckley and Mac went on all night.

Bunjies, as I've said, was tiny, a basement folk club and coffee bar on West Street in Soho, along from the Ivy, with gingham tablecloths and melted candles in wine bottles on the tables and a performance area tucked into a couple of arches in what must have been a wine cellar at one point. It looked unchanged since it had begun in the early 1960s, and had seen a couple of folk booms come and go. It was more of a cafe with an open-mic policy by this point, which felt like a good place for Jeff. There wasn't really any need for amplification, so when we arrived for a sound check there was very little to do but see where Jeff was going to stand in the cramped space and gauge how his voice reflected off the nicotine-stained ceilings. While Jeff did that, I went outside for some fresh air and was stunned to see a line of people already waiting to get into the show.

I took a look at the guest list and realised we'd be lucky to fit twenty of this assembling crowd in the tiny space. Every time I looked up, the line was getting further down West Street. I went back into the venue and found Jeff talking to Emma Banks, the agent. He was saying how great the venue was and that he'd like to do something like hand out flowers to everyone before he went on.

"Jesus, you won't believe what's happening out there," I said to them. "The line goes about four blocks. There's no way these people are going to get in. Is there any way we can do two sets?" Jeff was happy to. Emma spoke to the club owner and was told they had some regular club night happening later on. She came back and said, "They can't do it but I've had an idea!" She disappeared up the steps onto the street, and I spoke to Jeff.

"What flowers would you like?"

"White roses," he said.

"I'll get them," I said, and went back up to the street, where the line had grown even longer.

I walked around looking for a florist and bumped into Emma. "I've booked Andy's Forge," she said. "It's a little place just around the corner in Denmark Street. He can go on at 10:30."

I bought as many white roses as I could find. Jeff handed them to people waiting outside and those lucky enough to get into the club, as he squeezed himself into the corner that passed for a stage. He sang upward, listening to his voice reflect off the curved ceiling into this hot, crowded, and attentive space. There must have been a hundred people stuffed in there.

When the show was over, Jeff walked up the steps to the huddle of patient people that Emma had gathered, plus anyone from the first show who wanted to tag along, and led this crowd like the Pied Piper toward Andy's Forge. Abbo was alongside me. "Have you ever seen anything like this before?" I said.

"Never!" he said. And we laughed liked idiots at the wonderful absurdity of hanging out with Jeff.

© Jim Irvin, 2018

[psychicagasthya]

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[sweetdreamsjeff]

Jeff Buckley in the U.K.

JEFF BUCKLEY loved British music; the nervous energy in British punk, the wired consciousness of the Clash, the way Siouxsie and the Banshees went from gun-metal moodiness to skies full of fireworks.

He adored the Cocteau Twins, of course, especially Liz Fraser's "impossible voice". He loved how the Smiths called to outsiders and nerds. He loved the textures of Johnny Marr's supple guitar and the mordant presence of Steve Jones's guitar in the Sex Pistols.

Jeff, whose own nervous energy was considerable, became even more wired whenever we went to the UK; he was stimulated by its variety. He also appreciated its compactness – the lack of eight-hour drives between cities was refreshing.

Sony had passed on Live at Sin-é in Europe. We were understandably disappointed, but there was a solution close at hand: Steve Abbott, known to everyone as Abbo, who ran the eccentric indie record label Big Cat and had picked up on many of the promising un-signed bands playing in New York: Pavement, Mercury Rev, Luscious Jackson. He had approached Jeff after Gods & Monsters and Sin-é shows and asked him if he'd like to record with Big Cat, but then Sony stepped in. Jeff felt that he owed Abbo a record, so when Columbia UK passed on Live at Sin-é and Michele Anthony instigated a funding deal with Big Cat, it seemed the perfect opportunity for them to become involved. Abbo jumped at the chance.

Big Cat's small team – Abbo, co-owner Linda Obadiah, Frank Neidlich in marketing, and Jacqui Rice in press – did such a good job that the week it was released in Europe, Live at Sin-é sold over four thousand copies, which was amazing for a complete unknown.

After a Sony conference, where it was clear that a lot of the affiliates were bemused by him, Jeff had a warm-up show at Whelan's in Dublin. By the time he came on, the crowd, several drinks into its evening, had become a little boisterous. Jeff said hello softly, as usual, but no one was really paying attention. Jeff just stood there, waiting. People started to quieten down and watch to see what he would do. There was a pint of his favourite beer, Guinness, sitting on the stool next to him. Jeff lifted the glass to his lips and downed it in one hit. Everyone on the room cheered, and he began the Irish show with the crowd completely on his side.

The audience was more blasé the next night at his London debut at The Borderline, a Western-themed venue under a dubious Mexican diner in Soho, right in the heart of London, a group of local reps for hip American indie labels like Sub Pop and Merge yacking away rather disrespectfully at the bar. In the age of grunge, a lone guy with a guitar softly singing Edith Piaf covers was baffling for some.

"It was an epiphany for me," says Sara Silver, Sony's European head of marketing. "There are some shows where it just feels like you're a voyeur, looking into someone's soul. This was one of those. He was charismatic, but also haunting, and I think because of my particular situation at the time, still suffering from the [loss of my husband], he resonated hugely. This haunting sound was a powerful force, and it was my job to work out how we took it to the world."

A gig the next night in Glasgow meant an early-morning flight back to Heathrow the following morning to catch a session with GLR, London's local BBC station, a slot designed to alert people to the next couple of gigs at the Garage in Islington and at Bunjies, a cute little basement folk club in Central London that dated back to the early 1960s and made Sin-é seem generously proportioned.

Abbo was accompanying Jeff on this run.

"We'd meet regularly at a bar called Tom & Jerry's in New York, hang out and drink Guinness together," Abbo says, "I suppose I became a friend of his, and he didn't seem to have many real friends. I'd only discovered I liked the blues since living in New York, so it was great hanging with him, because he was a huge blues and jazz fan and if there was a guitar around he had to pick it up and show off. He knew every Robert Johnson song, every Muddy Waters tune, Bessie Smith; he introduced me to the physicality of the blues, watching it at close quarters. Everybody talks about his voice, but he was a brilliant guitarist. The guitar was an extension of his body.

"Tim Buckley hadn't really entered my line of vision growing up listening to black music. Singer-songwriters with fluffy hairstyles were not currency on my council estate in Luton! We were in Tom & Jerry's and someone said to Jeff, 'I've been listening to your dad,' and I said, 'Who's your dad?' and he said, 'Tim Buckley.' I knew the name from record shopping; I'd seen the sleeves in the racks, but that's it. But when he came over to Britain there were loads of Tim Buckley fans. And it was a real problem early on, because he really didn't like talking about him."

The traffic from the airport to the GLR studios just off Baker Street was awful. A road accident had slowed everything to a standstill. Jeff's slot on the mid-morning show was fast approaching. "Of course, this was before mobile phones, so I had no way of communicating with the radio station that we were stuck in traffic," says Abbo. "For the last few days on this tour, everyone who'd interviewed Jeff had been asking about his dad. How did Tim write 'Song To The Siren'? Was there stuff in his lyrics that he might have related to? Things Jeff couldn't answer.

"We were listening to GLR while we waited in traffic and the presenter kept saying, 'We're supposed to have this artist, Tim Buckley's son, turning up, but he's late....Will he or won't he turn up?' This went on and on. She must have said 'Tim Buckley's son' about four times and didn't mention Jeff once. Suddenly, he just kicked my car radio in with his big DMs [Doc Martens], just smashed the fascia and then sat back sulking all the way there. I could get another radio, of course, but I was mostly worried he wasn't going to do the performance. 

"We finally arrived about forty minutes late and they were all so rude to us, and yet they knew what the problem was, as they were broadcasting traffic updates and warnings of delays themselves. If I were him, I'd have walked out. The female presenter was a typical local radio DJ, a bit gushy and knew nothing about him and his music. I had a word with the station manager to ask her to stop mentioning Tim Buckley, and he handed her a note to that effect. Jeff just sat there silently and she said, 'What are you going to play?' and Jeff said, 'A song.' I'm thinking, 'Oh god, here we go.' And he started to play "Grace." He did this long guitar introduction, went on for about a minute, like he needed to calm himself down before he got to the actual start of the song, and then he launched into the most electrifying performance. The best I ever heard him do it.

"There were about six phones in the control room, and they all started lighting up. 'Who is this? Who is this? It's amazing!' And all the time, Jeff's getting more and more into it. The presenter went from being this standoffish woman to...I swear she would have thrown herself on him given half a chance, the second he finished singing. You could see she was totally enthralled."

Presenter: "You looked quite exhausted at the end of the song."

Jeff: "I was getting a lot of anger out. Something happened on the way here..."

"The phones didn't stop throughout the next song. The station manager said that in all his twelve years at the station, he'd never seen a reaction like it."

Abbo thinks this performance sparked Jeff's breakthrough. There were certainly plenty of people in line outside the Garage in North London that night. Inside, the first stars were taking note. Chrissie Hynde and Jon McEnroe were in the audience. Chrissie had been a big fan and a friend of Tim's, had actually interviewed him while she was briefly a music journalist with the NME, and she was obviously curious to see how his offspring compared. They struck up a conversation after the show and she clearly said the right thing, because he went off with her to jam with the Pretenders in a nearby rehearsal room. I wasn't carrying anything heavy because of a recent lung collapse, and I didn't want Jeff to pull any important muscles, so I asked McEnroe if he wouldn't mind. He happily hauled Jeff's amp downstairs to the car. The Pretenders' jam with special guests Buckley and Mac went on all night.

Bunjies, as I've said, was tiny, a basement folk club and coffee bar on West Street in Soho, along from the Ivy, with gingham tablecloths and melted candles in wine bottles on the tables and a performance area tucked into a couple of arches in what must have been a wine cellar at one point. It looked unchanged since it had begun in the early 1960s, and had seen a couple of folk booms come and go. It was more of a cafe with an open-mic policy by this point, which felt like a good place for Jeff. There wasn't really any need for amplification, so when we arrived for a sound check there was very little to do but see where Jeff was going to stand in the cramped space and gauge how his voice reflected off the nicotine-stained ceilings. While Jeff did that, I went outside for some fresh air and was stunned to see a line of people already waiting to get into the show.

I took a look at the guest list and realised we'd be lucky to fit twenty of this assembling crowd in the tiny space. Every time I looked up, the line was getting further down West Street. I went back into the venue and found Jeff talking to Emma Banks, the agent. He was saying how great the venue was and that he'd like to do something like hand out flowers to everyone before he went on.

"Jesus, you won't believe what's happening out there," I said to them. "The line goes about four blocks. There's no way these people are going to get in. Is there any way we can do two sets?" Jeff was happy to. Emma spoke to the club owner and was told they had some regular club night happening later on. She came back and said, "They can't do it but I've had an idea!" She disappeared up the steps onto the street, and I spoke to Jeff.

"What flowers would you like?"

"White roses," he said.

"I'll get them," I said, and went back up to the street, where the line had grown even longer.

I walked around looking for a florist and bumped into Emma. "I've booked Andy's Forge," she said. "It's a little place just around the corner in Denmark Street. He can go on at 10:30."

I bought as many white roses as I could find. Jeff handed them to people waiting outside and those lucky enough to get into the club, as he squeezed himself into the corner that passed for a stage. He sang upward, listening to his voice reflect off the curved ceiling into this hot, crowded, and attentive space. There must have been a hundred people stuffed in there.

When the show was over, Jeff walked up the steps to the huddle of patient people that Emma had gathered, plus anyone from the first show who wanted to tag along, and led this crowd like the Pied Piper toward Andy's Forge. Abbo was alongside me. "Have you ever seen anything like this before?" I said.

"Never!" he said. And we laughed liked idiots at the wonderful absurdity of hanging out with Jeff.

Jim Irvin, 'From Hallelujah to the Last Goodbye' (Post Hill), May 2018

Excerpted from Jeff Buckley: From Hallelujah to the Last Goodbye by Jeff's former manager Dave Lory and former MOJO man Jim Irvin (Post Hill Press).

[bizarrepotpourri]

I received a link to the article above in my inbox and of course they had to remind me of a work-in-progress story that I can't finish. Mostly because as unashamedly horny as I am, I find writing sex scenes awkward.

From the nerdy point of view, the article - a bit rambling and stream-of-consciousness, as befitting "rough draft notes" - gives some really good points that fit with my #Special Officer 432 stories, like:

the British relationship with the noose is intertwined with concepts of celebrity which remain relevant to this day. That is to say, the gallows is both a stage and a celebrity drama.

This is, pretty much, the vision of a society I had in mind while creating the fictional Kingdom. I focused on it the most in "The Murderous Brat", where I wrote down four different tabloid headlines including absolutely spoilerrific "YES SHE DID" and went with a full battery of jabs (and a booster) against lowbrow sensationalist "reporting" by the tabloid press. Because the more I researched, the more I noticed the pattern.

There must also be a charismatic quality in the criminal, or alleged criminal, if not in themselves, then in how they are portrayed and what they come to represent. Take for example how Beatrice Pace, who was tried in 1928 for the murder by poisoning of her husband, attracted huge crowds of sympathetic women to her trial. While acquitted, it is clear this ‘fandom’, for want of a better word, and her image as tragic widow cum black widow would have followed her to the gallows.

When it comes to the stories outside of the Officer series, my intention is to make the characters distinctive in some way. Sometimes, they're inspirational in a bad way, for leading a band of brigands or pirates, sometimes they're supportive in some dirty way, like offing their perverted step-brother to save their sister or providing certain solutions like Aqua Tofana to other women. Even the narrator in "View from the Window" hints that she's ideologically motivated, part Greta Overbeck and even larger part Charlotte Corday. I want the readers to know that when they go, they go for a reason and are resigned but somewhat proud of their fate.

Celebrity must be built up, and raised to a crescendo. But then the celebrity must be brought low and destroyed, through their hubris, restoring order or the illusion of it. This degradation is a public spectacle, or at least comes with it an audience of some sort or another.

Well... This explains why the condemned in my stories are executed naked or mostly naked - aside from the expectations of the genre, it also fulfills this need for degradation in a straightforward and aesthetic way. You have a seductive woman on the scaffold, exposed at least partially, and in a moment you will witness her meet her grisly end.

This audience for celebrity must also be urban in nature, and atomised on a personal level, a product of industrialisation and post-Enlightenment society.

And this is where Mr Hay is wrong. Very, very wrong as history proved multiple times already. The fascination with criminals and their executions dates back a long, long time and both ballads and horror stories from the Medieval era prove that making someone famous or infamous doesn't need the trappings of modern society to happen. For example, we have the story of Klaus Störtebeker, as famous for his life as he is for his death. The popularization of print merely helped save some of the stories for posterity.

The rest of the article goes into a lot of interesting details about the case of Marie Manning and her husband, both executed in 1849 for the murder of Marie's lover. While I knew the basics of the case and got the idea for a story from it, it turns out from Mr Hay's notes that there's more to it when it comes to Marie's role in planning the whole thing than Wikipedia cared to publish, and the quotes from contemporary press he brings up indeed prove the sensationalistic tabloid approach to such cases. It also, unfortunately, throws the entire concept I had out of the window, even more than my dubious ability to write sex scenes. Oh well.

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[collymore]

Normal St. Ku Klux Kate Middleton of course and her gormless non-live-in spouse William!

By Stanley Collymore

The British monarchy has successfully exploited and handsomely bribed the mass media to convince the gullible and easily manipulated British public that its own members are patently somehow special and evidently superior to all others. When, in reality, the clearly unremarkable Windors, quite obviously basically represent nothing other, than the continuity of very gross inequality, manifestly vile unaccountable power, societal injustice, distinctly blatantly and, undoubtedly rampant, immoral greed and simply lax morals, with a notorious influence on paedophilia and likewise very manifestly, serial adultery. Therefore these evidently Windsor groupies actually need to either remember or aptly acquaint themselves with the simply, awful facts; that shamefully, some thirty percent of children crucially living in the UK, generally live in poverty which in stark, and pitiable reality, according to several and likewise   distinctively prominent, reputable charities, is far in excess of more than four million children! So, my solution? Abolish these farcically scandalously lying and so-called normal parents, literally like Kate and William, and essentially as a most suitably, rather distinctively fitting bonus, together with them the full useless British monarchy.

(C) Stanley V. Collymore 4 January 2024.

Author's Remarks: Why does the Daily Mail publish rubbish like this? A rhetorical question from me as the answer I'm sure is quite obvious to equally intelligent persons like myself; but in a single word, money!

Kate and William, apart from their rather glossed over or not reported at all living conditions, are not normal parents. And why not? For starters they're both sitting on immense and unearned riches; and to suggest otherwise is pretty insulting to those real parents who through no fault of their own are struggling every day to simply exist and bring up their children successfully.

Doing so without a plethora of servants of all kinds as well as nannies to literally raise their children for them; and, rather obviously as well, have to wake up every morning to real life!

So essentially Daily Mail, your hacks and trolls please get rail. For reporting as you are doing and backed supportively by all these gullible morons on Kate Middleton and equally also William is nothing other than cruel, plus most egregious, vile and sick, insulting commentaries to ordinary and unpampered, privileged and actually self-entitled as well as discernibly, rather ridiculous, essentially so-called "normal" parents like St. Kate Ku Klux Middleton and her, in name only, simply gormless husband William!

Incidentally, normal parents actually work and quite literally don't have a plethora of nannies to effectively and daily raise their employers' own children; neither do such "normal" parents aptly have an abundance  of maids, chefs and cleaners at their own beck and call, and ludicrously with historic castles at their own disposal and to live in!

For the sole benefit of the Daily Mail, its hacks and undeniable surfeit of evidently intellectually challenged, utterly gullible and easily manipulated feudal mindset, avid monarchical and sycophantic serf trolls instinctively inclined to think and even earnestly believe that my previous paragraphical statement has anything to do with envy or jealousy on my part quite requisite to the Windsor family, just forget it; as you're so wrong! And not in the least so because I simply couldn't give a toss where, or in what state of existence the Windsors live in, so long as they're quite personally and very thoroughly financially paying for their own state(s) of habitation.

That said though, and aptly hogging my mind, how about whatever incumbent UK government there is at the time, with the Express support of the genuine British taxpayers who undoubtedly involuntarily find themselves paying for these Windsors upkeep, either permanently or else in lieu of that not being feasible for diverse and practicable reasons, rent exclusively the land immediately around the base of Mt. Vesuvius in Italy or Grimsvoeth in Iceland and essentially relocate their living abode there? Accordingly, in the actual process of doing so, with their full complement of advisors, PR consultants or more fittingly propagandists, and quite applicably with several such rather likeminded personnel from the Daily Mail, and quite naturally of course, the entirety of the Windsors own household minions! As it most certainly wouldn't be proper or polite to absolutely exclude them! Lol!

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[annarellix]

Murder in the Scottish Hills by Lydia Travers (The Scottish Ladies' Detective Agency #2)

When Maud McIntyre and her lady’s maid Daisy travel into the Scottish Highlands, the last thing they expect to find is a body on the train… Will these keen amateur sleuths stop a murderer in his tracks?

Edinburgh, 1911: When Maud McIntyre receives a letter from a maid called Rose, sharing her suspicions that something strange is happening in the house where she works, she and her assistant Daisy immediately travel to the Highlands to investigate. But as they are changing trains, the body of a man falls from the carriage right in front of them, a bullet in his head. Maud and Daisy can’t believe it – they’ve waited ages for a new case, and now one has literally landed in front of them! And when the local police rule the death as a tragic accident, the pair have no choice but to investigate what they believe is a murder… Arriving in the Scottish village, Maud and Daisy go undercover to begin their hunt for the murderer, while also investigating the strange behaviour of Rose’s employer, a local art dealer. As they begin to piece together the chain of events, Maud and Daisy wonder whether the cases might be linked. Is it possible the man on the train was killed to cover up something in the village? And, if so, who would do such a thing? When a local artist is found murdered, Maud and Daisy become convinced the two cases are connected. Searching for the link between the deaths, will Maud and Daisy solve the case before another mysterious murder takes place?

My Review: Maud and Daisy are back with a new investigation and another compelling story that kept me reading and have a lot of fun. They started collaborating to a newspaper as an agony aunt and a maid wrote a letter to the column talking about some mysterious situation. They are intrigued and decide to learn more. This is the start of a new adventure full of twists, turns and surprises. I think this is going to be one of those series that improves with each new story as this one is faster and more complex than the first. Maud and Daisy are getting more skilled in investigating and the banters are as fun as they were in the first story. The historical background is well researched and vivid, You can visualize the social manners, the clothes and the food. It's fascinating but sometimes the mystery and the plot takes the backseat to descriptions and historical facts. The mystery is a bit slow at the beginning but when it takes speed is tightly knitted and kept me guessing. I didn’t guess the solution and liked it. I can’t wait to read the next story as I’m wondering what will happen in Maud and Daisy life. I would advise to read the book in this series in order as there’s some references to the previous story and it would help to understand how the investigation agency started. Highly recommended. Many thanks to Bookouture for this arc, all opinions are mine

The Author: Lydia Travers was born in London.  She moved progressively north until settling with her husband in a village on the edge of the Scottish Highlands. She has raised children, bred dogs and kept chickens; and for as long as she can remember has written for pleasure. A former legal academic and practitioner with a PhD in criminology, she now runs self-catering holiday accommodation, sings in a local choir and is walked daily by the family dog. Lydia also writes as Linda Tyler and her first novel under that name, Revenge of the Spanish Princess, won a 2018 Romance Writers of America competition for the beginning of an historical romance. Her second novel The Laird's Secret was Commended in the 2021 Scottish Association of Writers' Pitlochry Quaich competition for the beginning of a romantic novel. Mischief in Midlothian won the 2022 Scottish Association of Writers' Constable Silver Stag trophy. She has had a number of short stories published in magazines, journals and anthologies in the UK, the USA and Australia.

https://www.facebook.com/LindaTylerAuthorScotland https://twitter.com/LindaTyler100

Sign up to be the first to hear about new releases from Lydia Travers here: https://www.bookouture.com/subscribe/lydia-travers

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