#in my own moccasins

[mccoppinscrapyard]

My top books of the year and Honorable Mentions

[kenzxo111]

Hello friends!

I’m back again with another video, this time it’s on something I believe is very serious and important. I made a video on all the books I have read so far from indigenous authors, I have learned so much and would love if you checked them out! It’s important to educate yourself 💗💗love ya!

[chronic-invisibility]

I keep remembering tiny tiny details of books I read as a kid or books that were read to me as a kid and desperately wanting to find them again but having so little detail to go off of that it’s virtually impossible. This is like the third book I’ve remembered and had an all-consuming need to find, although I did actually find one of them recently, the other one I’ve been wondering about for a few years, and I just remembered another tonight while I was taking a bath.

[fandomnerd9602]

Could we get smth of y/n surprising the Disney princesses with a Valentine’s Day gift with them swooning over him

Y/N walks by all the princesses, giving them gifts…

Rapunzel: new paints?! Thank you baby

Elsa: homemade gloves and chocolate? Oh my love.

Anna: my own snowman stuffie! (Giggles)

Belle: a copy of Romeo & Juliet?! Y/N!

Ariel: a dinglehopper! It’s perfect!

Mulan: a new sword?! It’s so well balanced!

Merida: me new bow? Aye I love ye

Aurora: new clothing material? It’s perfect!

Snow White: oh sweetie…a scrapbook! I love it

Pocahontas: new set of moccasins!

Moana: a compass! I love it!

Tiana: oh sugah! A new cooking set!

Jasmine; a world map and navigation set! Amazing!

All the princesses hug and kiss Y/N, loving their gifts…

[historiasbodyswaps]

A NEW BEGINNING PART 2 (STORY OF MALE POSSESSION)

God, I can't believe that everything is working wonderfully. I have adapted quite well to Mario's life. These last few months have seemed like a dream. In the mornings I go to the news and it is incredible. I love my new, very masculine voice and I can't say that It excites me to put on those business suits every morning that fit my new body so well, I love running your soft hands through the silk socks that reach the firm calves of this beautiful male.

What can I say, it's a dream come true, I finally have everything I want, as I always knew I was gay and with this new body no one could resist this very well endowed body, thank you Mario I am fascinated by having taken your body.

Tonight I went to a bar in my area, I got new clothes for this body, it was exciting to be able to see my reflection and try on clothes so sexy and tight that they go over my soft and hairy legs.

I'm ready for tonight, I look spectacular with these tight pants that show my wonderful bulge that is eager to find a pussy to impregnate, God seeing me with this body excites me too much, I think that before I go to the bar I will masturbate, it is pink and big cock is totally mine, I start to think what Mario would say when he sees what I do with his body.

The days go by and I don't get bored in the slightest being Mario. Since the day I went to that bar, notifications have not stopped coming to my iPhone about twinks who want to sleep with me. Every night I unload on such a young and soft pussy.

Since Mario was earning quite well in the news, I decided to take advantage of this and take a vacation. You can imagine it with this sensual body and my wallet full of money. I was irresistible to any man I wanted to sleep with. I bought new tighter clothes to provoke glances, I can't stop looking at myself I adore Mario's body I love having his life I will never regret going into his mouth until I take over every part of him.

Damn, seeing myself with these moccasins on drives me crazy, at night when I get to my apartment I take off my moccasins and start massaging my own feet with those beautiful black socks until I touch my package that is wrapped in those tight pants, it excites me so much that my load is distributed throughout my body, all that viscous liquid is impregnated throughout my body with that sexy executive suit on Mario's body.

That was it, I have to go to continue having fun and making use of Mario's body, which I imagine must be suffering from seeing how I use his body, and how many men I have impregnated with his wonderful and gifted cock, I love this suit Navy blue is my favorite, wearing it with those soft black socks and my shoes fascinates me.

[hotdaemondtargaryen]

FABIEN FRANKEL photographed by Arthur Delloye for GQ magazine.

In the interview for GQ.

TALKING ABOUT FASHION:

He often avoids dressing with a single brand for events, opting for a mix of his own wardrobe and vintage clothing.

“I’ve always been a bit of a hoarder. I’ve been vintage shopping since I was 14 and I have a bit of a Narnia-like closet.”

In his everyday outfits he has a strong inclination for solid and bulletproof tailoring, inspired by Armani's classic zoot suit of the 90.

"Wide shoulders, large lapels and beautiful leather moccasins. I love that costume silhouette."

“In the mid-2000, when everything was really tight, it was never my thing. A mix between 90 and 50 is more my fashion type.”

TALKING ABOUT HIS ARMOR COSTUME IN S2:

He had mentioned before that the armor was so heavy that it often had to be fed on set.

DID THEY LIGHTEN IT UP FOR SEASON TWO?

“They did! They made the cape lighter, that was a relief. I was able to feed myself this time around.”

ABOUT HIS CHARACTER IN S2:

“Definitely less in the shadows, I think, than in season one.”

ON TALKING ABOUT HIS STYLIST, LUKE DAY:

“It’s one of the greatest genuine collaborations I’ve been able to have in my career, in a weird way.”

“He’s one of the few stylists who never pushes a brand on you. He’s never once done that.”

His stylist, Luke Day, puts together about a dozen full looks for one event and lets Frankel decide when the time approaches.

“We’re always doing something vintage mixed with something new mixed with something of mine mixed with something of his.”

In the recent New York leg of the press tour, Frankel would wear: “[Day’s] jacket, my shirt, trousers that he got from a vintage store, then an actual pair of branded shoes.”

He wouldn't change this dynamic for the world: "I love that we work like this and I think it's really unusual. Talking about it now, I realize how unusual it is."

WORKING WITH BRANDS:

“It’s something I hope to do, work more with brands. But because I’m so particular, I’m concerned that brands don’t want to work with me, and not the other way around.”

He just wants everyone to work together.

[gunbun]

this post is about the cultural concerns regarding ffxiv: dawntrail

Hi doods. Activism has brushed up against fandom YET AGAIN but this time it punches me straight in the heritage and this time I wanna talk about it.

I'm a non-status Qalipu Mik'maq, for the record. An Indigenous American, if thou wilt.

I discuss some pretty heavy shit below the cut. I pray it persists across all devices. Please advise if you want me to tag this as something, or block the tags I have used. I do not need anyone to spread this on my behalf, I do not need anyone's defense. I just have some thoughts and I want to think them.

So it's been less than 24 hours since Dawntrail was announced and we got the Keynote.

We're going to Fantasy The Americas! Before Industrialization!

Many people went "oh hell yeah, that's Brazil, this is gonna be great! We don't usually see this!"

On Twitter especially, many MORE people lost their goddamn minds, citing CBU3's prior wobbles with depicting foreign/indigenous persons.

And of course, the White Community Leaders are out in force performing pre-emptive outrage or even asking people to quit FFXIV in light of this announcement.

I'm here to ask folks not to do that.

What follows is my tweet-thread about it.

"It is perfectly okay to be waiting and seeing how Tural is going to be portrayed in Dawntrail. It's okay to have a concern.

It is NOT okay to come out preemptively swinging and performing outrage.

Because blood quanta are their own touchy subject I usually don't bring this up, but I am the class of indigenous person what represents "what's left".

And I fucking tell you now I don't need the opinions of Concerned White People.

I do not need Concerned White People telling me what colonialism is.

I do not need Concerned White People telling me to be mad.

I do need Concerned White People to realise that the above two actions are microaggressive as fuuuuck.

"but Jai, aren't you White?"

colonialism and genocide comes in many forms. this includes forcing indigenous persons to assimilate or be killed.

also stuff like reinforcing the idea that being indigenous is shameful so that when their descendants find out, they deny it."

Thus ended my tweet thread. There's one more tweet linking to qalipu.ca.

So I want to write more about this on Tumblr.

I really want to make sure that folks take a hard look at what they're concerned about and why.

Like… a lot of White Concern about the use of indigenous motifs in Dawntrail is itself a brand of anti-indigenous racism.

Thinking that the MSQ is going to automatically be about the Scions starting a colonialism in Tural? That's a pretty gross thing to say in the same breath y'all complain about Always Fantasy Europe.

Calling "cultural appropriation" when everyday items are displayed and depicted in the manner in which they were/are used (gulal, curry)? Way to exoticise foreign and indigenous cultures by thinking that everything they make, wear, use, or eat is something of Deep Cultural Significance that Cannot Ever Be Shared With Outsiders. Saris and salwar kameez are just as culturally significant as skirts and slacks. Moccasins are just shoes.

And moreover, getting preemptively Concerned when thus far THERE IS LITERALLY NO NEED TO BE CONCERNED is actually kind of beyond the pale. I haven't seen many indigenous folks and/or folks from South America being anything but pleased that this time The Americas gets a cool pastiche like Europe, Asia, and India have gotten in the past. There's an undercurrent of "oh no, I hope it's not bad stereotypes" which is ABSOLUTELY OKAY. Reblog and retweet what THOSE people are saying. Do not add commentary.

Preemptively saying "you're worried" about your South American/Indigenous friends with zero indication that they're bothered? Come the actual fuck on. We are not a monolithic group that you can "be concerned" for to get a pat on the back later as a Good Person. Do not Perform the I'm A Good Person And The Worst Thing You Could Do is CALL Me A Racist dance.

Don't "get ahead of the discourse". Not every conversation needs your fucking input. Shut your mouth.

What is and isn't an Offensive Portrayal of Indigenous Americans is a lot more nuanced than most people who like to perform outrage make it out to be.

We can and will speak up for ourselves. Share our words and our concerns if you must. Do not go and distill our words and turn us into the monolith you hide behind to perpetuate white saviourism and neocolonialism.

We aren't a monolith of poor uneducated people who don't understand what the europeans did that need to be uwu protected.

[ohmypawsandwhiskers]

WIP Wednesday Pt. 2!

I wanted to share a bit more of the fic I have been working on for Erwin's birthday before I get back to beading the moccasins. It is just making me feel a lot, and it isn't finished yet but I need to at least get a portion out XD

“Seeing as it’s your birthday, and people give gifts or whatever on birthdays, I made you something,” Dani’s words stumble over themselves as she looks everywhere but him, keeping an eye out for any potential witnesses to this exchange. It’s comical, in a way, for Erwin to see her so evidently out of her comfort zone.

Still, he didn’t expect any presents. Being brought to powwow had been more than he expected this morning, as far as birthday activities went.

“You didn’t need to do that. You and your family have given me plenty today-“

“Shh” her eyes finally meet his, shining with the smile she can’t bring herself to make as she purses her lips. “You’ll ruin it. Let me do this.” Dani sighs and runs a hand over her brow while the other remains behind her back. “I wanted to make you something. I don’t know what it’s like to be completely without family on a day that’s supposed to be happy, but I can only imagine it makes the world feel dull and heavy- I saw that much when I found you this morning, and, I don’t know, I guess I wanted to try and make it feel like you don’t ever have to be alone. Or, whatever. Just… here.”

She stops her rambling and shoves a hastily wrapped present into his hands before looking away, her teeth tugging at her bottom lip nervously.

With careful hands, Erwin undoes the twine that keeps the crumpled colored gauze around the present before removing the rough and sheer fabric until a leather-bound journal is revealed, dyed a deep blue and adorned with beads to look like the night sky.

“You did all of this today?” he asked skeptically, as he examines the book with a careful eye at each stitch and mark made onto the leather.

“Well, I made the notebook bit earlier, but I did the bead work today, as well as the inscription inside- you know, since you never saw my letter.”

Erwin recalls the times he was trying to get her to sit down and focus, but her attention was drawn to sewing the leather onto the cover of a blank notebook. At the time, he figured it was just another way to keep from doing an activity in which she had no interest-

“I had been working on this as a gift to thank you after all of the lessons, since I noticed you really like writing, and your notebook was almost filled, but then you said it was your birthday so I figured rather than wait ages for me to master writing, I’d finish it up now and get it to you…”

As Dani continues to ramble, nervously awaiting his reaction, words fail as tears threaten to surface again, but this time, they are tears of gratitude and a full heart. He flips open the book to the first page where, with clumsy but cautious with its effort, Dani had penned words:

When we remain, we will not be like the beautiful bones of a forgotten city. When we remain, we will be the flowers and the trees and the vines that overcome the forgotten city. We have woven ourselves into the cloth of the earth. We have mixed our breath into the expanding sky.

“It’s the translation to a song my grandmother used to sing to Nev and me after our mother passed. It never failed to bring us peace I know it’s not much, but happy birthday. My wish is that every time you look at this, you remember you are never alone. Even our lost ones are here with us.”

Two beats of silence pass before Erwin breaks into a smile and pulls Dani into a tight hug. Despite the initial stiffness and reluctance with which she receives the hug, hands frozen outstretched in shock, she eventually relaxes and returns the hug. The unspoken emotions, the grief and relief in not being as alone as he thinks, are conferred through their embrace.

It surprises her, not when his shoulders slightly shake as he silently lets out the tears he had been holding back all day, but when her own eyes prickle with the stinging heat. And rather than pull away from the hug, Dani stands her ground, enduring and welcoming it because something about him that is strange but it calls to her, plucking a similar chord that had been urging her all year to stay by his side. Something that tells her they are sailing in the same direction, a life line tethered to their bows.

No pressure tags: @askweisswolf @sleepy-sham @topaz-carbuncle @atruewarrior @musings-and-fandoms

@jayteacups @liveforlevi @the-rebel-archivist @the-mpreg-guy and anyone else that would like to participate!

[aeolianblues]

Jarvis Cocker: At the end of 1996, I had “a nervous breakdown”

Kate Mossman of The New Statesman talks to Jarvis Cocker, September 2021

The singer on nostalgia, hating David Cameron, and how crashing a Michael Jackson performance had “a toxic effect” on him.

Jarvis Cocker leans on a table in the courtyard of the House of St Barnabas, a members’ club and homeless charity, and one of the only bits of London’s Soho that does not bear the marks of the interminable Crossrail project. Cocker says he’s not one for conspiracy theories, “but there’s a lot of dark mutterings about what has happened while everybody’s been locked away. You can see it in Soho, where loads of building work’s gone on. They took an opportunity. Cement’s gone up in price because there’s none left.”

He’s not as tall as he is in your mind’s eye – a solid 6ft 1 – but he cuts a stately figure in green cords and a high-quality lilac shirt. Here, in a moccasin-style shoe, is the foot that was broken, along with his pelvis and ankle, when he fell out of a window in Sheffield pretending to be Spiderman. (He spent months as a young man gigging from a wheelchair.) Here is the rear that was waved at Michael Jackson, in a life-changing moment it still upsets him to talk about. Here are the long legs that bent like those of a freshly born foal on stage, and here are the glasses that were held on his face with an elastic band so he could execute his moves. These long, smooth fingers would frame his face, or flick his “V” signs. As sombre as he is, seating himself on a bench alongside the New Statesman, he is the only pop star that most people under 80, regardless of their artistic ability, could have a crack at drawing.

You feel wary of going straight in on “the Nineties” – it must be such a bore – yet Cocker brings them up right away, talking about a song called “Cocaine Socialism” which he wrote for his band Pulp in 1996, at their commercial and critical height. It was all about New Labour’s courtship of pop stars. The title was ironic he explains, because “cocaine will make you not give a fuck about any other member of the human race”. Cocker shelved the song because he thought it might actually stop the people of Britain voting Labour – a sign, he says, of his overweening ego at the time.

When I was 14, a friend gave me a perfectly executed cartoon of Cocker, drawn on squared paper in a maths lesson and titled “My future husband”. It is often a source of frustration for musicians when their biggest audience proves to be teenage girls, but this is to overlook the power of teenage girls – and teenagers in general – to work up an intensity of feeling that all but creates a career. Cocker should know, because he conceived of his future – conceived of Pulp, “planned my whole life out” – at the age of 14 in an economics lesson, writing it all down in exercise books which he recently unearthed in an attic. 

He had a written manifesto, “very earnest, about how we’re going to get famous, have our own record label and radio station, and help other bands, and break the tyranny of the major labels”. And he’d drawn pictures, too, of an arm, with “major record company” tattooed on it and a meat cleaver saying “Pulp Incorporated”, ready to chop off the hand.

“It was supposed to be some socialist empowerment of the people. It wasn’t just: ‘I’m going to buy a big house in Barbados and have a jet ski’.”

Cocker’s proudest moment in a 30-year career was when Martin Amis agreed with something he’d said, when they appeared together on a TV talkshow approaching the millennium. Jarvis had stated that, in the 20th century, fame had replaced heaven as our ultimate goal, our way of cheating death. His own moment of fame, when it came, was sizeable, but it took him 15 years to get there: Pulp formed in 1981 – they should have been a post-punk band rather than a Britpop one.

In 1996 Melody Maker judged Cocker the fifth most famous man in Britain – after John Major, Frank Bruno, Will Carling and Michael Barrymore. Two years later, the novelist Nick Hornby reflected, “Jarvis Cocker is an acute and amusing chronicler of our life and times… but sometimes… you wish he’d communicate via chat show or letter rather than song.” This he has done, and often. Jarvis has been Jarvis for the last 25 years, in radio, TV, the written word – and perhaps less so in music, in the popular imagination. When you have lingered so long outside fame’s door, fully formed and ready to go, you must be loath to make an exit. Only in the garden of a private members’ club can he go about peacefully; he cycles in London, without a helmet, so you suspect he is recognised often, moving at speed.

Cocker shows me photos of his new bike on an old iPhone – a Moulton small-wheeled cycle, described by Norman Foster as the greatest work of 20th century British design. There are racks back and front, “to put yer bag on”. “I have spent a lot of time on quite random, trivial things,” he tells me. When his beloved 1970 Hillman Imp car finally gave up the ghost, he had it crushed into a cube and gave it away to a fan.

Cocker was in the Paramount Hotel on West 46th Street, New York, in December 1996 when a girl called Imogen called from the New Labour office and asked for his endorsement. 

“I’d been to some event down Whitehall,” he recalls. “A kind of wooing event, and I’d felt really weird about that. It’s hard to imagine now. I was 16-17 when Thatcher got in, and a Labour government seemed like a fantasy. I felt very conflicted, because I really wanted it to happen but something just seemed wrong. Even at that time – a quarter of a century ago – I thought, ‘You should be doing politics, not trying to get some endorsements from some people in bands’. There was a desire for it to happen, and then this disease. It felt like getting chatted up.”

Imogen had tracked Cocker down during what he calls, perhaps surprisingly, a “severely traumatic part of my life”. At the end of 1996 he was having what he refers to today as a nervous breakdown. When the telephone rang in his hotel room, he assumed the suite was bugged. He’d gone to New York around Christmas time and, alone and anxious, found himself unable to face the crowds. But he also struggled to stay indoors, tormented by the aesthetics of his hotel room – “super designed, with a giant picture of a Vermeer painting, a woman pouring some milk out of a blue jug. You walked in to an art installation, and I was in a fragile state of mind.” 

Cocker’s descent – which seems to merge with the ascent of New Labour in a lurid kind of fever dream – began with his trespassing the Brit Awards stage in February 1996 during Michael Jackson’s performance of “Earth Song”. “I don’t really like talking about that particular incident,” he says, looking down at his knees. “People said at the time that it was a publicity stunt but it wasn’t really like that. It had a toxic effect on my life.”

There is a considerable mismatch between the folk memory of the moment, and the memory held by the perpetrator himself. To most, Cocker’s actions look more heroic as the years go by: the last cry of a bloated Eighties megastar defeated by British indie, or something to that effect. Jackson’s pageantry seems worse now than it did at the time: the white messiah robes and outstretched arms; the children lining up to embrace him; the rabbi bowing his head for a kiss. The pipe cleaner figure of Cocker floats on stage looking puzzled, wafts an imaginary fart at the audience (with his bottom clothed) and briefly raises his T-shirt. Hardly something to be arrested for (as he was, before being released without charge) but the 1990s are a draconian place, when you travel back in time.

[see also: Bridget Jones and the Blair years]

Cocker was represented, in his assault charge, by the comedian Bob Mortimer, a former solicitor. David Bowie’s personal film crew were able to provide tapes shot from a certain angle to prove that he had not, in fact, knocked into any children when taking the stage. But there was condemnation from Damon Albarn (“he’s got some very odd ideas about reality”) and Jackson (“sickened, saddened, shocked, upset, cheated and angry”).

The tabloids subjected him to feverish attention. Cocker had always talked about drugs – the liner notes of Pulp’s single “Sorted For E’s & Wizz” showed you how to make a drugs wrap (“Ban This Sick Stunt” said the Daily Mirror). And he’d always talked about sex – he watched a lot of porn in hotel rooms on tour. Now, there were kiss and tells, and an attempt by the Sun to engineer a meeting between Cocker and his estranged father in Australia.

What thoughts were passing through his mind when he stood up and walked towards Jackson’s stage? He won’t say. “One thing I will say is that people are still convinced that I pulled my trousers down and showed my bottom. And it’s really not true. That’s when I realised what a c*** David Cameron was.”

In November 2011, he explains, the Observer put celebrities’ questions to the new prime minister of the coalition. Cocker asked Cameron whether he really understood the phrases “futures” and “derivatives”. Cameron gave a long answer to prove that he did and added: “I was there that night, at the Brit Awards. I saw him led away. I saw his bum.”

Cocker stirs his Americano.

“I just thought, ‘OK, you are a liar. You’ve just shown yourself to be a liar and a complete twat’.”

In the New Statesman that year, Cocker wrote a reflection on hangovers, inspired by the one he had the day after Tony Blair was elected. The hangover lingered, as he criticised New Labour’s treatment of single mothers, students and the disabled. It lasted 13 years, he said. It ended when Cameron got in – not because things were better, but because that’s when he started drinking again.

There is a photograph of Cocker as a long-legged child pictured with his mother, granny, sister and aunties outside their terraced house in Intake, a suburb of Sheffield. With her red pixie haircut and large specs, his mother, an art student, looks just like an indie girl from the 1990s – or a member of Pulp – in a strange cultural collision of the original hippies and the Sixties revival decades later.

Cocker lived on the dole in the Eighties trying to get his band off the ground. During the Britpop era, Labour’s Welfare To Work scheme made such a life much trickier, inspiring a campaign by Oasis’ manager Alan McGee. The dole must have had a huge impact on people’s ability to pursue creative work?

“Probably for six months, and then you get lazy,” Cocker says. “Not wanting to sound like Norman Tebbit, but you do, and that’s what drove me away from Sheffield – people were dropping like flies, having drug overdoses or losing it, and I thought, ‘It’s only a matter of time before I end up there’. So that’s when I started hatching my escape plan.”

His ticket out – a place to study film at Central Saint Martins in London – produced “Common People”, one of the most famous songs of the 20th century. Pulp were more refined, classy, slippery and sardonic than other Britpop bands. The image of working-class life as seen through the eyes of the song’s Greek art student gets to the heart of Cocker’s use of irony: he was interested in perceptions of class difference, perceptions of the north-south divide, as much as the real thing.

Having lived in the south for 35 years, he tells me the BBC’s insistence on using regional accents for announcers is a patronising attempt to keep people in their place. His mother became a Tory parish councillor for the village of Carlton in Lindrick, Nottinghamshire. In 1998 she told the Mirror, in an embarrassing interview, that she admired Thatcher – until the third term, when the prime minister became a megalomaniac. “I raised Jarvis on Tory values that if you’ve worked hard all your life, you want to keep what you’ve earned,” she said. Her son tells me he doesn’t agree with his mother’s support of Brexit – “but you won’t find many people who are going to say that everything’s going to plan. We’re on the downhill, and everybody’s got their own theories of why that is.”

Unlike his mother, Cocker has voted Labour since he was old enough to vote. “I can’t imagine voting for any other party,” he says, but that doesn’t mean he’s excited by the current one. “Corbyn I was excited about. But having spent a lot of time moving between France and here, his inability to come to any position on Brexit finished it for me.” Keir Starmer’s Labour, he says, “feels like the politics of opposition. It’s happening to the left all over the world, isn’t it? People have started wondering what level of dictatorship would be OK.”

A few years ago he visited the Magna Science Adventure Centre in Rotherham which recreates the world of the steel mills. Watching the installation of a “big melt” – when molten steel was poured into giant electric arc furnaces – made him strangely emotional. “It must be some kind of folk memory,” he says. “It was awful work, and loads of people got f***ed by the time they were 40. But there was some result and that’s what people miss – that there isn’t anything to glue people together in that way. Imagine working in a shipyard. After six months, suddenly there’s this big, massive f***-off ship and you’ve been part of that.

“There is a nostalgia, not for vibration white finger or lung disease, but for times when people worked together and there would be a result. I’m not an authority. It’s not for me to tell the Labour Party what to do, but I think – well, I thought I stumbled on something.”

He still praises the Sheffield city council, once nicknamed the “Socialist Republic of South Yorkshire”, which allowed children to travel for 2p on buses. He once said that when things took off for Britpop, he thought he was going to be part of something that changed society, like punk did, but it just turned out to be showbusiness.

Of all the extra-curricular jobs Cocker has done, the one the public took to most, which really seemed to fit him, was his gig as a DJ on BBC Radio 6 Music, running his Sunday Service show. His voice was as much a part of his sex appeal for teenage girls as his looks had been. The show explored a mundane but deeply nostalgic aspect of British culture: that time on a Sunday afternoon when everyone felt flat because it was nearly time for the week to start again, and you hadn’t done your homework. 

He’d resisted radio for a long time because of his father. Mac Cocker walked out in 1970, when Jarvis was seven, leaving Sheffield for Sydney, where he began a 33-year career with the Australian Broadcasting Corporation. His gentle Yorkshire accent was appreciated on the airwaves. He had a show called The Night Train on Saturdays (Jarvis has a Radio 4 show for insomniacs called Wireless Nights); and a show called The Globetrotter on Sunday afternoons, and another called Vinyl Museum. High of forehead with long hair and large National Health-style specs, Mac wore a tank top not unlike those his son wore in Pulp. He sang with a band called Life On Mars.

Traditionally, Cocker doesn’t talk much about his father. As we begin to do so, a very tiny and very hairy caterpillar makes its way along the edge of the table in front of him. It is barely a centimetre long, with legs so fine they move in little ripples of dark and light. Cocker does what all humans do when faced with a caterpillar and tries to persuade it to clamber aboard the nail on his index finger. After two or three refusals, it does so.

Mac Cocker left his son with small bits of information about himself, like a copy of Harold Pinter’s The Birthday Party on the shelf. When Jarvis was 12, he came to visit, bringing records with him.

“That’s when I found out he was a DJ. He’d obviously just gone into some record label and picked up some records and gave me them. I ascribed a real meaning to them, but it was just promos. They were wank. They were just these really shit records! Anyway…”

Cocker wonders if he was propelled into music because of his father, but explains that any biological imperative, if it comes from an absent parent, remains a mysterious thing. “I know it must come from him, because my mother is so tone-deaf. But if you don’t know him, it’s like it’s come from somewhere supernatural.”

His family would say, you’re just like your father – “but usually as a negative thing. It was strange to be brought up with this cloudy non-presence.” Cocker and his father struck up a form of relationship eventually, whenever Pulp toured in Australia.

“You’re telling yourself that you sprang from the loins of this person, but if you don’t know the person, that disconnect is really uncomfortable. What used to drive me mad was having really inconsequential conversations. When you tried and go on to the deeper stuff, it was just words… I could tell he was always very uncomfortable, and I’m not exactly the world’s best person for talking about emotions, so I was always terrified that an awkward silence was going to descend.”

Did they at least share music? What kind was Mac into? “Jazz,” he says, in disbelief. His father left a record behind in the Sheffield house – an EP by the Sixties French singer Gilbert Bécaud. “You know when singles have those big centres? He’d made a centre for it by cutting a bit out of a Player’s cigarette packet. That had always been in the house. I knew it was his, because his name was written on the back of it.”

When Mac was dying, Cocker visited him in Australia and took the Bécaud EP with him.

“I just Blu-Tacked it on his wall. It was the only thing I had of his. I just thought, because he went a bit away with the fairies before he died, I thought, that’s something from his past. I just stuck it on there.”

And left it?

“Yeah.”

In October this year, Cocker will release his own album of French music – songs originally sung by Françoise Hardy, Serge Gainsbourg, Jacques Dutronc – to accompany the forthcoming Wes Anderson film The French Dispatch, which is set in the 1960s. It features a fictional pop star called Tip Top who is modelled partly on Cocker. Anderson directed his intonation, his delivery, in the studio. Cocker’s French, he says, is “something I should be ashamed and embarrassed about”, despite the fact he got to A-level standard, was married for six years to the French stylist Camille Bidault-Waddington, lived in Paris, and has a French son. He regularly travels to France to visit Albert, now 18, and stays in an apartment backing on to the Hotel Amour. Albert looks just like him. During the pandemic he got around the social distancing rules by hugging him through a bed sheet.

In 1998 Cocker told the Sydney Morning Herald “I just want to find a way of being an adult without it being boring.” Does he feel he’s achieved this? “I know I’m still slightly immature,” he says. “I mistrusted adults as a child. But there’s something really grotesque about people who refuse to grow up. When I became a father, people were always saying [he whines] ‘You’re going to change’. But actually it doesn’t change you, it just opens up a new bit of you. It was a real revelation to me, to realise I had that instinct. I found it liberating. As you move through life, these little doors open. The other ones are still open as well.”

He thinks all human beings believe they just missed a golden age. For him it was the Sixties, the decade in which he was born, “when the Beatles were still a group. They came to an end as the Seventies came, and I was six or seven. That’s the same year that me dad left. It felt like, OK, you’ve had your fun.

“When you’re a kid and you’re looking at the adult world,” he ponders, “you’re only looking at what’s current at that time. Like me wanting to be a pop star. By the time it happened, pop stars were on their way out. By the time you’re old enough to be part of it, it’s gone. So in a funny way, kids live in the past.

“I think that’s the fatal flaw in the whole Britpop thing. I don’t like to say that word, because it was an invented label – but that was the fatal flaw, and it takes us back to the fatal flaw of electing a Labour government and believing it would be the same as it used to be. Let’s make the Beatles again… Oasis really tried to do that, but you can’t make a period in history happen again.”

As a songwriter, Cocker telescoped himself into the future with “Disco 2000” and “Help The Aged”. The former felt open-hearted but the latter, intended as a kiss-off to youth-obsessed politics, sounded sour at the time.

“It always used to drive me mad, people going on about, ‘Oh, you’re so ironic’,” he says. “It would be rubbish to devote your life to doing something that was insincere. I guess I’ll often undercut what I’m singing about as I’m doing it – and that’s just because of the way my mind works. As I think one thing, I’ll think the opposite as well. Later in life, you discover that you are allowed to have two thoughts: it’s a natural function of the way your mind works.”

Some would say that, as you progress through life, you get better at trusting your instincts?

“I think if you just follow your instincts your whole life, you’ll be a monster.”

Cocker brightens, perhaps because our interview is ending. When he talks about his hobbies, he gives a big leonine flash, raising his silvery eyebrows above the frames of his glasses.

I phoned him a few weeks later, after the summer, to see what he’d been up to. He was at a secret location in Spain, making a movie he wasn’t allowed to talk about. A pandemic spent going through his loft, and noticing priceless keepsakes among the rubbish, has inspired him to write a book about pop and nostalgia – Good Pop, Bad Pop – to be published next year.

He is dying to be back on stage after two years off it. “I’m touching a wooden table now. We’ve already had to postpone this tour twice.” And he talks about Labour again – he really seems to care! You think back to his manifesto, his teenage sketch of a meat cleaver chopping off a hand. Then you look at a life lived gently, moving between projects, ponderings and “random trivial things” – and you wonder what his revolution would look like.

Jarvis Cocker’s new album “Tip Top: Chansons d’Ennui” is released on 22 October.

[gl1tchy-4rt]

quick question, what kind of shoes does Becca wear? like boots for example?

While she does occasionally wear Moccasins (such as in special or formal occasions):

Like most CheeseSlimes she tends to wear boots because they are pretty easy to wear.

They don't need to "make a leg" to wear them, they can just pour themselves into the boot and let the boot "be the leg" on its own.

[nakamopapina]

Northwest throwing out some trash while half awake. I even drew her wearing some moccasins too.

Moccasins are like slippers, they have a soft, and fuzzy interior, and can have patterns, or no patterns sewn on (which are beaded)

Not all moccasins have fur on the top, some do, some don’t, it depends if you’re buying them, or making them, or someone made them for you. Just like not all of them have patterns on them.

I remember my Kokum made moccasins for relatives sometimes, though I never owned a pair myself.

[thislovintime]

On the set of Head, 1968.

“‘What stood out for me with Davy as an artist was his spontaneous stagecraft,’ Tork recalls. ‘He enjoyed himself on stage, for sure, gloried in his part. He was so alert as an entertainer and so relaxed that things would come to him out of the blue and he would just go with them. He could be incredibly funny. Micky and I were always breaking up on stage. [...] I’m so sorry he’s gone. I’m going to miss that wit and heart.’” - Billboard, March 1, 2012

“Genuine, reliable and huggable, Peter is a natural person — really gets off on talent — loves other musicians and can jam along with the best of ‘em. I saw him holding his own with Hendrix, Stills, Young. He encouraged me no end. Bought me my first guitar and my first drum kit. […] Never really got into fashions — he had his own. The first guy I ever met who wore different-colored socks. Wore his belt buckle on the side. Hated boots. Always had on sandals or moccasins. He used to walk with a swagger, swinging his arms with a confident air. He calmed hysteria, and lifted depression. ‘Dried banana, anybody? Piece of orange?’ — smiling, waving, running his hand through his hair. He knew all the crew by their first names. Kids crying at his feet he lifted and hugged like a father calming a child. Health food was just starting to catch on in the sixties and Peter was kind of a forerunner of that whole scene. I’m afraid that sort of image was a little thin for two other guys I could mention, but I understood — I really did. And I think he knew it. […] He’s the most musically talented of us all by a mile. His songs are real. ‘For Pete’s Sake’ — which replaced the Monkees Theme at the end of the some of the shows of the second season — is one of my all-time favorite songs by anybody. I’ve joked a lot about Peter giving everything away. But it was true. He was always giving his spare room to someone who needed it for the night — anyone. And he always seemed far away somewhere — in a different space. But I’m glad I know him. Of all the things he gave, he gave me lots of laughs — and food for thought.” - Davy Jones

“[Micky] and Mike and I have a very cordial relationship and share a lot of common topics. We go to lunch together when we’re all in town and have a good time. I love and respect each of these guys in their own way, although the real joys that I shared with Davy were special. At one point we had some good hard connections but as the years rolled on, those things faded away. But I am sorry to see Davy go. He was the one member in the group that I had the strongest human connection with. I still have two guys that I love and respect left from the band, but we share a different dynamic.” - Peter Tork, Review Mag, May 27, 2016

"I only now have, in the last couple of years, come to understand how smart and good-hearted Davy Jones could be. I did not have the skills to notice that, even though I was drawn to it without knowing exactly why. But I certainly did not have the first clue of how to encourage all of the good stuff from Davy that I loved. I wish I could have known how to do it - and he might still be with us, even.” - Las Vegas Weekly, September 14, 2016 (x)

“Well, I’ve never been really close with Michael [Nesmith] for some reason. You know, I have a lot of respect for him and admiration. But somehow we’ve never integrated. We’ve never been warm with each other. We worked together and did pretty well at it really.” - Peter Tork, Clevescene, March 13, 2017

Q: “I’m curious about the various reunions that happened over the years. Is it safe to say that you guys were never really friends?” Peter Tork: “Oh, I don’t know. I would say I was pretty good friends with Micky, and there was a lot of love between me and Davy. I have a lot of respect for Mike Nesmith and we’ve structured ways to work together. Things rotate. It’s like having a basketball team. You know, gosh, it’s like having a championship basketball team. They go on the road every so often and do tours, you know, just exhibition tours but fortunately your music skills don’t deteriorate as fast as your basketball skills do, but I wouldn’t know what else to compare it to. We had a chance to go out together and we took it, and we had a great time, and if we were not friends at all we would not have been able to do it. We played tours months and months long: ‘86, ‘87, ‘89, ‘91, ‘92, ‘96, ‘97, 2001, 2002 and 2011, so we couldn’t have been such enemies.” - Phawker, circa 2012; re-published 2019

And a throwback to Michael's 1972 Hit Parader comments about Peter in an older post.

[seekers-who-are-lovers]

Yugo Aosaki, the author of “Undead Girl Murder Farce,” is the one responsible for the Japanese drama/mystery/detective series, “Knockin’ on Locked Door.” It is his forte.

Perhaps, am a sucker for any stories about detective duo (or -coded characters) that make my heart aflutter. While Yugo was in deep writing “Undead…” he also wrote about the two young detectives, like a young SH and JW, but fresh uni grads, who have different approaches on solving a case. Gotemba Tōri and Katamushi Hisame, who after their graduation, co-run a detective agency and work on the cases brought by the clients. Yet, there lies the difference, bc the huge mystery they have to solve is their own. It concerns a neck scar of Tōri. Once, when Tōri was hurt during the case, lying on the floor bloodied and unconscious, Hisame fainted. Now the question is why.

Reminds me of different modern iterations of SH and JW. Sherlock BBC, Kamonohashi Ron no kindan suiri, etc.

Height difference

Messy longish wavy hair vs straight hair

The scar neck

The onsen/bath scenes

Chaos as Tōri’s aesthetic vs Hisame’s sense of order

Tōri has the habit of twirling his hair when he’s about to do some deduction also when he’s stressed. Hisame, on the other hand, cannot stop touching his eyesglasses when he is about to make his

Tōri likes his black turtlenecks and moccasins whereas Hisame loves it formal with his suit and eyeglasses

These two reenact the crime scenes in order to analyse the events that happened during the case. They are also touchy-feely to one another. They are comfy with their familiarity. Also, the actors’ chemistry. I love it.

[kahin]

Hii<333 can I randomly ask u what some of ur fav books are 👀👀

i really dont read that much.. <- starts sniffling and wailing ans sobbing. some books i've read or at least find appealing somewhat to read

The Raven Cycle / Dreamer Trilogy by Maggie Stiefvater

From the Ashes by Jesse Thistle (memoir, heavy contents of alcoholism, drug abuse, anti-Indigenous racism)

أن ألتقي به، بلقم بهاء الدين العيسى

Hiroshima by John Hersey

In My Own Moccasins by Helen Knott (memoir, heavy descriptions of drug abuse and sexual assault/rape)

Kokoro by Natsume Soseki

[newtonsheffield]

POOR ANTIHONY HE WAS SO NERVOUS, im dying to see kate in the same position later!! can we please see him stablish and more confident when time pass meeting with them for a lunch again?? poppy became friend with him??? and when neddy arrives???

I think Kate’s Poppy likes Anthony pretty much straight away and so does Mary. He can see that yeah, Anthony might have terrible taste in tea but he’s a good guy who is clearly very besotted with his granddaughter.

Poppy sits with Kate the next day, his granddaughter tucked against his chest just like when she’d been a tiny girl and she’d grinned at him and he would have given her anything she asked for, anything. He even went to that awful concert with her and Edwina who didn’t want Mary to take them because people around them would stare at Mary Sharma at a boyband concert. He’d still give her anything she wanted.

“What did you think of Anthony?”

He had watched the poor man all night, sweating in his suit, trying desperately to get them all to like him and it had seemed odd, because the one thing that really mattered had been so obvious. Anthony loved his granddaughter, and she loved him. “I think you’re in love with him.”

Kate stilled for a moment, her chin still resting on his shoulder, and her voice was soft, “Yeah, I’m in love with him and I just… he’s sweet, even if he’s a little bit silly and his car is embarrassing and he wears stupid moccasins. I just… want you to like him.”

“Your papa would have loved him.”

She looked up at him, her eyes wide, “Do you think?!”

“The man knows how to knit and I get the impression he’d lay down in a puddle so your shoes wouldn’t get wet. Of course he would have. He seems like a nice man though, I look forward to getting to know him better.”

Kate smiled, a tiny little smile, “We haven’t been together that long but I… I kind of feel like this is it for me. He loves me just…for being me and I don’t know, he’s very supportive he’s a great guy and I just… I love him. Disgruntled penguin look and all.”

His own heart fluttered in his chest at the look on her face, the yearning there and there was nothing else to say. “I like him then. Terrible taste in tea though.”

Kate groaned, “He didn’t tell me he was going to do that! I would have stopped him.”

There’s nothing to be done when Anthony nervously invites them in through the front door of his house, putting his hand out to shake.

“Mr Sharma, great to see you again, sir,”

He sighed, “You can call me Nalan, or Poppy, whichever you prefer. Now, let’s talk about the cricket, please. Katie told you you might have an in with some Ashes tickets.”

“I- I do!” Anthony said relieved, “I have some but my brother can’t go. Do you- do you want to come with me?!”

“I would love that, Anthony.”

And two years later he walked into a hospital room and his heart stops. His granddaughter is in the bed with her husband tucked up beside her and a beautiful little baby boy cradled between them.

“Give that boy to his Poppy, Anthony.”

[fabioquartararhoe]

i was minding my own business and then i get the notification that lewis retweeted george post, again. this man is pissing me off, the snake in moccasins is not respecting him. i’m sick of lewis being the bigger person when these people don’t deserve it