#mr price and the irish

[mrprice-official]

Lá fhéile Pádraig sona daoibh!

Happy St Patricks Day!!

[heavencanbeaprisontoo]

Strip Me to My Bones

Slowburn!Tommy x autistic!fem!reader Prologue: An Odd Woman

Summary: Tommy meets you in 1919, the beginning that feels like an ending in hindsight. Among betting men there is a vibrant culture of superstition and mysticism. It was in this industry you found your trade as a “psychic,” and met a man with a Red Right Hand.

Warnings: Period-typical sexism, contextual use of g-slur, Canon-typical violence, author is autistic, spoilers for series one possibly, slow burn, Tommy is shallow and confused at first. WC: 1.6k

1919 was an odd year for Mr. Shelby. His eyes were still bright, the boy who died in the tunnels still clung to his ankles as he stalked the roads of Birmingham. In those days, Tommy was still starving for money. For any sort of gain in power. He still slept on an old mattress with his drug of choice within reach. He still delivered his horses to mystics and magicians to psych out the competitors of the next day’s race. It was this Thomas Shelby who brought himself to the door of your flat. You, the newest little medium in Small Heath.

He had heard many things about you. How you seemed to just “know,” things. You weren’t gypsy, but there were whispers that you could see inside hearts and minds like no other. For a reasonable fee, you would read a person like a book tell them the next chapter of their life without hesitation. He was not normally the sort to seek your kind out. Thomas Shelby could see ahead just fine without the guide of psychic, genuine or charlatan in nature. Until, of course, a crate of guns came into his possession and an Irish woman sang to him from atop a table. Even the devil needs direction, sometimes. 

That morning, the devil had sought you out.

Your flat looked the same as any other. There were green vines and a purple curtain blocking his view inside your window. Plain bricks on the outside. Gutter hanging off slightly from your roof. Thinking it best to just get it all over with, he knocked. You answered. And he froze.

When he first saw you, there was nothing extraordinary about you. You didn't wear a silk turban or line your eyes with black to convince your customers of some supernatural gift. You were just a young woman dressed comfortably in her little flat. A long, thick robe suited for the winter chill was tied around your body and sensible slippers on your feet. Nothing overly frilly or fanciful. Tommy would almost call your presentation "dowdy." However, what had made him freeze were your eyes. He knows the power of his own stare. Your stare was something truly unique. It was something he couldn’t quite put into words. The color of your eyes was not exceptional, nor the size of your eyes or their shape. There was a force behind the stare that had him fixed to the spot. The sound of your voice was all that put him back into the world.

“Can I help you?” your tone is flat, but he can’t decide of its intentional.

Tommy takes a glance from the corner of his eye to ensure there are no onlookers. The roads are empty. He looks into your eyes once more and says, “You see the future, I hear.”

“I see people, for a price. Not the future. Nobody can do that. It’s rather early, so I hope you’ve got money in that big coat,” you step aside to let him inside. He almost hesitates. Second thoughts are not something Tommy likes to entertain. To falter, to ruminate, is to dance at the edge of cowardice. Tommy pushes onward and crosses the threshold of your home. Thus begins the start of a most unusual affair.

The lighting was dim in your little flat, and on the walls were dozens of shadowboxes were every assortment of insect on display. In fact, nearly everything in your home appeared to be some sort of collection. Orderly in their presentation but crowded due to lack of space. All the furniture looked inherited rather than new, but that was typical. There was the scent of lavender and cedar in the air. As he passed by two sticks of incense burning on the mantle of your fireplace, he found the origin of the fragrance. 

‘No trace of any other resident in the home. No husband. How modern’, he thought. As he made his observations, Tommy was painfully aware of your eyes on his back. You guided him silently to a small room with two sofas facing each other. He sat opposite to you, not bothering to remove his cap. As you sit across from him, your eyes are everywhere but him. Roving about the room as you tap your thumb to the tip of each finger on your hand. By the way you were sitting, someone just entering the room might assume you were a guest by how stiff your posture was. Back completely straight, both feet firmly planted on the floor. This was your home, your time, and Tommy looked more at ease sitting on your own furniture. 

“I normally have tea prepared, but you don’t drink tea anyway, so I won’t bother with the kettle this time,” you say as your bottom hits the sofa cushion. He hears you. He hears you make a correct assumption about him, but he does not show his acknowledgement. 

Tommy threads his fingers together on his lap, “They say you can see inside of people, tell them things about them that even they don’t know.”

Blinking owlishly at him you reply, “My, that’s a lovely review of my services! Should put that on a sign outside my doorway. Though I would rather know why you came to see me, Mr. Shelby. You are Mr. Shelby yes?”

“That I am,” he nearly laughs, “and I am not entirely sure why I came to see you either.”

Your eyes snap onto his own and again he feels caught off guard by it. Slowly, you lean forward, “It’s not like you to need help. You avoid seeking it. Something has happened to you that has never happened before, you do not know how to carry on because you cannot fall back on learned tactics to navigate the storm.”

He says nothing. Tommy finds you don’t require his input to carry on speaking as you tilt your head and continue. As you speak, you never break eye contact. Your gaze is one that leaves him feeling stripped to the bone. Flesh peeled back and pinned so that you may inspect him further with an objective, curious eye, "One of the walking wounded, soldier come home from war. You don't sleep well. None of you do. But, you hide it better than most."

"Quite the assumption," he deadpanned.

You carry on as if not hearing him, “A Catholic without Christ. Guilty but without remorse. You only follow yourself and yet you have lost faith within. So, you act out of your own character to try to find a solution to a problem you’ve made yourself. A problem with solutions you can't commit to.”

Tommy’s heart is beating faster in his chest. The plain-faced woman who greeted him at the door has been replaced. Your face seems to change, the sir around you shifting. There is a thrill in being seen. A thrill, but also annoyance. “And what would you do to solve such a problem?”

“It wouldn’t help you to know what anyone else would do. Even if my way was best, you wouldn’t obey it. Obedience is not something you do willingly,” there’s a smile in your eyes that makes his hands tighten around each other. “Is your greatest problem above, below, or beside you?”

His face remains stoic as he mulls over your odd question. He thinks of those beneath him, the factory workers who riot and cause him distraction. Beside him, his brothers in arms and brothers by blood. Ada. Freddie…. Grace. And then he thinks of Campbell and Kimber. “Above me, always.”

You nod, “There was no need for you to come see me. You know the answer to the question before you asked it. The greatest woe for you is that there are matters of the heart keeping you from stabbing upwards to the enemies who stand over you. You aren’t used to having that sort of obstacle... You need to decide what you want more and act accordingly. To have both things will end poorly, but I can't stop you. Nobody can but you.”

For a moment, he feels a sense of relief. It had been many years since the words of a stranger had done that to him. This feeling was overtaken by an immediate realization. He had come to you under the assumption that you were gifted by second-sight. Yet… You had no cards, no crystals, did not say a prayer or even a hymn in a nonsense language.

“You’re no medium,” he states it as fact. Not as a question or accusation. Though, he watches to see how you take it. Tommy likes to see how people respond to being caught, he finds it to be the most revealing time for most. For the third or fourth time since he laid eyes on you, you defied expectation.

With a slow shrug you say, “I’ve never made the claim that I was one. Everyone started saying so one day and I decided not to correct them. I just read people.”

‘What an odd woman,’ Tommy leaned back in his seat. Face still as stone. As he looked at you, your posture returned to that stiff, nearly-too-straight, position from before. He could see why the average man would see you as something beyond the natural. Ordinary to otherworldly. An odd woman indeed. You stand from your couch with a small, crooked smile, “That’ll be ten quid, Mr. Shelby, a discount for a first-time reading. It'll be thirteen for the next time.”

He pushed the money into your hands and said, "Won't be a next time." You gave him no audible response as you walked him to your door and released him from the dreamworld your home had trapped him in. Tommy did not look back as he walked three paces from your door and lit a cigarette. No one had seen him and he had a feeling you wouldn't share his visit with others.

Tommy pushed you from his mind to focus on what may come next.

The rest of the day moved quickly and slowly all at once after he left your little flat. He swore to himself that he would never go back. Swore that he hated every instant spent in your dark home that smelled of lavender and cedar. Swore that he despised the way you peeled back his skin with that glare so sharp. No, he couldn't feel them on him. Not at all.

[justrainandcoffee]

Never is too late (Tommy Shelby x male!oc)

Summary: Never is too late to heal a broken heart. The first time didn't work? Maybe this time it's the perfect time. Even if the healing has the form of an annoying Irishman, who's ready to put Tommy's world upside down.

Warnings: Some homophobic slurs. || MxM || I wrote this in like an hour because invaded my mind early today. || I'm ready to piss off the homophobes this fandom have. Come to me. I don't bite 😌.

Words: 1k.

If Polly knew she didn't say it. But Polly always knew. As subtle as Tommy believed he was, the signs where there.

"Business with the Irish," he said, lighting a cigarette.

"Arthur and John are coming with you?"

"No. I sent them to deal with the Americans. They're easier to convince than the Irish."

"If you think that," Polly said, "then you're a fool. Arthur can't manage his own life and John can't even manage Esme, and she's tall as a teacup. And you sent them with the Americans?"

"You can go too, if you want, Pol. The boys didn't leave yet."

"Yes. Maybe I should go with them. Good luck with the Irish, Thomas. Which one of them are you planning to fuck with? Figuratively speaking." A little smirk appeared in her face, but his aunt kept staring at him.

"The Walsh clan."

"The Walshs" Polly shook her head. "The fucking Walsh. Well, people comment things about them. And not good things, Tommy."

"People comment things about us, too, Polly. Some people have enough free time in their lives to talk about other people."

"And what about Alfie Solomons?"

"What about him, Pol? He's in London with his wife, why do you ask?"

"Curiosity. Your frequent travels to London are over now?"

"Maybe. If I need to visit him, then I will. But not now."

"Okay, then. Better go with your brothers before they mess up with the Americans."

"Good. See you later."

.

Jared Fionn Walsh was the leader of the Irish mafia dominant in the south of Dublin. Raised as a Catholic man, Jared Walsh knew very well what being a sinner meant. Hell was waiting for you even if you dare to sneeze in a Church. His mother was a submissive woman who allowed being hit by her husband. Mr. Walsh was a powerful man who loved cocaine more than his family. Jared was the older of his sons and the one who put a bullet in his head the day he celebrated his 18th birthday. So, that day he celebrated his birthday, the death of his father and his ascension as the leader of The Walshs.

His mother never forgive him, despite Jared was sure that she was going to die for internal bleeding soon because his father loved to punch her in her stomach. But Maureen Walsh was convinced that God put Jared Walsh Sr. in her way because he had plans for her. Even if her husband was a violent man it was God's divine intervention and decision. And her own son dared to interfere with God's power and she couldn't forgive that. Jared jr, never saw her mother after his 18th birthday until she died when he was 25. He went to the funeral, left flowers and never visited her again.

It was wise, his mother couldn't accept him anyway. Jared loved men and he was proud of it. He never denied that he was homosexual and it was frequent to see him kissing and even fucking men.

His brothers didn't dare to mention his condition because they could end like their father. Besides, Jared never forced them to be part of his other business and was his problem. South Dublin had two nocturnal pubs known for receiving homosexual men and lesbians. Irish police tried to close and arrest them, only to end drowning in their own blood.

Nothing that money couldn't buy. Silence had a price and Jared Walsh had half of the politician class quiet. The other half was terrified of him.

He heard the Shelby name before but never had the chance to meet any of them in person. Walsh knew that the business the Peaky Blinders had reached even London, territory of the Italians and the Jews. He wondered if Shelby wanted to expand his business in Dublin as well or just was testing what kind of men he and his people were.

If Thomas Shelby expected a bunch of pussies like Sabini and his men were, then he was going to know in the worst way what the Irish were made off.

Jared Walsh was known to fuck with men and not just sexually speaking, but in other darkest ways. Maybe he was homosexual but he wasn't a pussy.

.

Dark hair and blue eyes as he had, was the first thing that Tommy Shelby noticed about Walsh when he entered the Garrison, opening the door with the confidence of someone who owned the place. And the city.

Jared Walsh, far from being intimidated, smiled and shook hands with him when he approached the table he was at.

"That man fucked another man before," was something that he thought when he looked at Tommy in the eyes.

He wasn't wrong.

"Mr. Shelby," he said.

"Mr. Walsh."

"It's nice to see you, Mr. Shelby at last. In our little world, it was amazing that we didn't see each other before. But it's never late."

"Never is too late to do business," Tommy said.

"Or to fuck, but we can see that later."

"Prostitutes are for dozen, but not here."

"I'm not interested in women, Mr. Shelby. I guess you know that. If you are the smart man people say you are, I need to believe that you investigated me. Otherwise, I don't think you want to make business with someone you don't know. And I'm a very open man. There's no secrets about me. Sodomite, homosexual, faggot, call me whatever you want, and I'm not going to deny it."

"I don't care what you do with your cock, Mr. Walsh."

"Yet, Mr. Shelby… yet."

[chic-a-gigot]

Le Petit écho de la mode, no. 8, vol. 29, 24 février 1907, Paris. Chapeau en tulle et velours noir, modèle de Mme Ch. Desbruères, 217, rue St-Honoré. Plastron en vraie Irlande. Ville de Paris / Bibliothèque Forney

Chapeau en tulle noir légèrement soulevé de côté, garni de velours et plumes noires.

Plastron en vraie Irlande (modèle du no. 14 du Petit Echo de la Broderie, qui donne le travail en grandeur naturelle avec l’explication détaillée et le prix de vente). La guipure imitation d’irlaode écran ou blanche, nécessaire pour faire le plastron. Prix: 2fr.95. Le mètre, sur 0m,46 de large, coûte 5 fr. 25. Adresser mandat-poste à M. Orsoni, 5, rue Lemaignan, Paris (XIV arr.).

—

Black tulle hat slightly raised to the side, trimmed with velvet and black feathers.

Plastron in real Irish lace (model from no. 14 of Petit Echo de la Broderie, which gives the work in full size with detailed explanation and sale price). The imitation Irish screen or white guipure, necessary to make the bib. Price: 2.95 fr. Yardage, 0.46 meters wide, costs 5.25 fr. Send money order to Mr. Orsoni, 5, rue Lemaignan, Paris (XIV arr.).

[thelastspeecher]

Here's a little bit more in my Horse Boy Stan AU. Just after Stan turns into a horse, and how he winds up with the McGuckets.

;)

——————————————————————————————

                 Stan stomped his hooves anxiously as he waited his turn.  Jimmy Snakes had left town as soon as he found an upcoming auction to sell him at, frustrated that Stan refused to be broken.  The money would be wired to him after the sale.

                 Stan felt a shiver run down his spine.  He was going to be sold.

                 At least last week could’ve been worse.  Jimmy could have dropped me off at a place that treated me like shit.  But the stables holding the auction boarded and fed Stan, and were kind in all their interactions with him.  Except for the upsettingly thorough examinations to determine the minimum price he would be worth.  Stan lowered his head.  I just want this whole nightmare to be over.

                 The people at stable hadn’t been able to break Stan, but he was still defeated.  There wasn’t even a glimmer of hope that he could escape.

                 “Lot 17, a buckskin Irish Draught stallion,” the auctioneer announced.  The boy holding Stan’s lead brought him out of the wings and onto the stage.  There was some murmuring from the gathered crowd.  Stan felt a strange twinge of pride that made him stand at attention.  He knew from the people at the stable that he was considered a high-quality horse, despite lacking a formal pedigree.  “Wild or feral caught, no paperwork, unknown age though he is fully grown, and unbroken.”  The murmuring grew louder, then died down.  The auctioneer seemed to notice the apparent loss of interest.  “He would serve as a good workhorse.  Or, as he is intact, stud fer workhorses.  We’ll start the biddin’ at four thousand.”

                 “Four thousand!” a voice shouted.  Stan looked at the crowd, quickly zeroing in on the sole person interested in buying him.  It was a young man about his age, with dark hair and a large nose that took up most of his face.  A young man next to him, with blond hair, elbowed him and whispered something.  Stan’s potential buyer shrugged off whatever the other man said.

                 “Any other takers?” the auctioneer asked.  He sounded disappointed, though Stan wasn’t sure why.

                 I’ve never been worth four thousand bucks in my life!  No one else spoke up.

                 “Going, going, gone,” the auctioneer said.  He slammed the gavel.  “The buckskin goes to Lute McGucket.”  He raised an eyebrow.  “I assume yer father will come by with the money fer him?”

                 “Sure thing, Mr. Smith!” the man, Lute, called.  Chuckles sounded from the crowd as Stan was led backstage and into a stall to wait.

                 Thankfully, Stan didn’t have to wait long.  Within about fifteen minutes, two voices sounded, getting louder as they approached Stan’s stall.

                 “He ain’t broken, Lute.”

                 “My fam’ly’s got a way with horses, you know that.”

                 “And what’ll ya do if ya can’t break him?  Rent him out fer stud?  Without papers, no one would pay a cent!”

                 “Look, we’ll figure it out.”  The two people from before came to a stop in front of Stan.  “I can tell there’s somethin’ special ‘bout this feller,” Lute said.  His friend crossed his arms.

                 “I don’t know if yer right.”  He sighed.  “But it ain’t my business, so I’ll drop it.”  Lute’s friend began to walk away.  “I’ll see ya and this new stallion tomorrow.”

                 “Sounds good!” Lute called.  He turned to Stan.  “All right, feller, let’s get ya out of here.”  He pulled a lead out of his pocket and attached it to Stan’s halter.

                 Okay, first impression, he’s not the worst.  I guess.  Lute opened the door to Stan’s stall and led him out of the stable.  A different stallion was patiently waiting, tied to a post.  Lute smiled at Stan.

                 “This here is my usual steed, Tuesday.  He’s a gelding, but don’t worry, we won’t geld ya.”  Lute winked.

                 Uh.  I don’t think I want to know what he’s talking about.

                 “I can tell yer not the kind of stallion we would geld,” Lute continued.  “But not so’s we could stud ya.  No, it’s ‘cause yer special.”  He cocked his head.  “What’s yer name?”

                 “Stan,” Stan whinnied instinctively.  He winced.

                 Dammit, think!  Why bother telling him, he won’t understand!

                 “Stan,” Lute repeated.  Stan’s jaw dropped.  Lute grinned.  “Just like yer special, I am, too.”  He mounted his horse and tied the lead to his saddle.  “Let’s get ya home and sorted out, okay?”

                 How the hell did he know what I said?  Lute winked again.  Eh, fuck it, I don’t care.  He understood me, and that’s all that matters.  Stan eagerly followed Lute and Tuesday, for the first time since this whole mess started, feeling optimistic.

[matsunoso]

because you’re also Irish and an Osomatsu fan and idk if anyone else in the fandom would get this I want to share my Osomatsu-san if it was set in Ireland headcanons -

- Karamatsu: talks with a fake D4 accent, idolises Ross O’Carroll Kelly, wears chinos and brown brogues, drinks Bulmers

- Osomatsu: big Guinness fan naturally propping up the pub maybe like half doing a crossword and eating a pack of peanuts

- Choromatsu: wanted to get into TCD to live his Normal People lifestyle but ummm didn’t, claims he’s a fluent gaeilgeoir but only knows how to ask to the toilet in Irish

- Ichimatsu: hung out at central bank in the day

- Jyushimatsu: massively into hurling, wears a Kilkenny jersey a lot but isn’t from there

- Todomatsu: also wanted to get into TCD but didn’t basically lives at Brown Thomas

- Chibita: has a strong cork accent, works in a deli in centra/spar/mace

- Todoko: did Irish dancing as a kid but now is an aspiring influencer

hope you enjoy and sorry

OH THIS IS INCREDIBLE literally never in a million years expected to get an ask like this but i loveeeee it. you're so enlightened like this is genuinely magical i wouldn't change a thing.. love cork chibita love ichimatsu at the central bank GAA JYUSHIMATSU SPEAKS TO ME DEEEEEEEPLYYYY

not a concept i ever pondered myself but thinking about it so much now... influencer wannabe todoko doing hauls from dealz and home savers and mr price (cus she usually can't afford hauls from anywhere else) maybe getting to do one of those ads for swappie just once

in the same vein as choromatsu claiming to be a gaeilgeoir but not actually being able to speak it i imagine like. how karamatsu says random words in english to seem #worldly. he does that with irish instead or like deep cut irish slang/phrases that he would not have grown up with at all and gets them wrong half the time.

choromatsu is definitely in forbidden planet like weekly if not daily. goes in there and then brings whatever manga he bought to that clockwork door place up the road and hopes someone asks him what he's reading

struggling to decide who would be a bigger fiend for elfbars out of osomatsu and karamatsu so i'll just leave that thought there

i want one of them to be obsessed with mooju. i don't know which. all of them probably. especially osomatsu and jyushimatsu i think. they could get the strawberry and banana flavours to match their colours.. imagine.. i think ichimatsu likes the cookies and cream flavour but secretly

thinking about jyushimatsu so hard man like the rest probably stick to dublin/whatever suburb of it they live in just cus they seem the sort to not afford to live in the city centre LMAOOO not in a house with 6 adult kids..... but i know jyushimatsu does be getting on the bus/train every week and just disappearing off all over the country for funsies (he's the only one with an autism diagnosis so he's got that sweet sweet free travel card.) like you know how you get those dubliners that are fucking terrified to leave the county or even just the city because "scary culchies ewww boggers" or whatever. todomatsu is definitely one of those maybe choromatsu too (he pretends not to be scared but he is). osomatsu jokes but doesn't actually care. karamatsu pretends to be #cultured and not scared as well but the furthest he's been is like... skerries. nowhere further than the dart or dublin bus goes. ichimatsu is scared even just in dublin and thinks he's gonna get stabbed like all the time so it's all the same to him

BUT YEAH jyushimatsu goes literally everywhere cities towns parishes villages you name it. maybe brings ichimatsu along with him sometimes cus ichi does wanna go & i bet loves the countryside but is too scared by himself and needs someone to hide behind. jyushi goes to sooooo many GAA matches gaelic footballs ok but as you said MASSIVELY INTO HURLING!!!! one of those lads you see walking around with a hurl in hand nearly everywhere he goes.. got that o'neills mála scoile... i know you said he wears a kilkenny jersey a lot which is another INSPIRED idea but i feel in my heart that he has a galway one too just because he loves supermacs. they all love supermacs. i'm projecting now. also jyushi definitely tears up those greenways he'll do the royal canal one and then detour from mullingar to athlone and at the end still be like when are they gonna finish connecting this up to galway :/

sorry i didn't expect to write this long of a reply you've ignited something evil within me i'm going to be thinking about this forever. thank you SO much you have such a wonderful wonderful brain

[dragons-and-dwarves-are-nice]

To the Shadows that Cry Witch /// Chapter 17

Hello! So I've made this one a little longer to make up for the two weeks of posting I missed, even though it's still a bit of a filler chapter, but I promise more exciting things are coming. Also I may be going on a small hiatus after posting this or the next chapter so I can get myself ready for uni. But apart from that, Enjoy! <3

Summary: Magic was real, but it came at a price. So when two girls end up in the one place they never thought they could reach, strange things began to happen. Good or bad? That's up to them to find out.

Tags: Kili x oc/reader - Fili x oc (POV to be written soon) - Thorin's company × ocs/reader (platonic) - fluff - angst - EXTREME slow burn - crack - Bagginshield

Word Count: 3013

Warnings: Mentions of injuries and distressing events from previous chapter.

Taglist - comment or message to be added!

PLEASE START FROM THE BEGINNING IF YOU HAVEN'T ALREADY OK LOVE U

Want some background music? Check out my Soundtrack Playlist!

Now available on Wattpad and AO3 (please let me know if links aren't working)

<; Chapter 16 // Chapter 17 // Chapter 18 >

Part 2: Chapter 17 -

I am confusion.

Moira (Definition): A person’s fate or destiny. (Noun / Origin: Irish / Moi·ruh)

Hobbiton, The Shire – T.A. 30th September 2939 of the Third Age (1339 in Shire-reckoning)

“And he just dragged you both in unconscious and decided to let you stay? Just like that?? Yavanna he is a strange hobbit.”

We both nodded in unison at Mrs Greenfoot’s questions and watched as she let out a guffaw, her eyes widening in disbelief at the story we told about our arrival. We had left out the parts where our belongings had materialised out of thin air and the near-death experience we had falling from the sky, otherwise I was sure we would be chased around with a cane and one unhappy hobbit lady yelling about us being delirious.

We were currently sat what seemed like a sewing room, with a folding screen standing tall on one side, whilst the other wall was taken up by a large cabinet and further shelving, that housed threads and fabrics of all kinds of colours and textures. I was currently sat on a small circular ottoman stool, watching Gladiola as she stared at the numbers on a measuring tape she had wrapped firmly around Kay’s waist. Brushing a brown curl out of her face, she released the tape and turned to a small table next to her, jotting numbers down on some paper.

“Well that’s a first.” She began. “It’s not every day Bilbo just lets anyone into his home. Not after he found Lobelia that one time trying to nick an entire drawer of handkerchiefs, my word,” she said with a chuckle, “Their screaming match could be heard from across the river!”

“He didn’t ask us right off the hook, though.” Kay responded. “We explained our situation and managed to convince him in the end.”

“Right.” Gladiola said whilst wrapping the tape around Kay's bicep. “Just make sure you two stay out of trouble – for both your reputations and Bilbo’s. The hobbits here love gossip, nor are all of them friendly to outsiders, if you haven’t already noticed.” She warned.

“Yeah we’ve noticed. I counted 9 who changed their route to avoid us, and don’t get me started on the staring.” I answered unenthusiastically.

Gladiola let out a short laugh. “You’re going to have to get used to it for a little while, I’m afraid. At least until they warm up to you. Hopefully.” She made one final note on the paper and put her tape measure away. “Now, keep in mind I am limited to what I have access to in Hobbiton, but why don’t you two tell me what kind of clothes you want.”

We spent a while sharing our ideas – I asked about a simple layered dress with a bodice that was similar to what Mrs Greenfoot was wearing, and some dungarees. Kay described a something similar, but with her own colour scheme, Gladiola nodding along as she wrote it all down. During that time, Bilbo had returned with the tea, and had a kettle boiling away as we all sat at the dining table.

“Ok, I’ll see what Mrs Brownlock has at her stall tomorrow morning and get started.” Gladiola explained.

Bilbo reached into his pocket and brought out a sack of coins, handing it over to Gladiola, insisting she had some form of money-based payment for the help she was provided, and she received it gratefully. I stood up and walked over to the stove to pour another cup of tea. At that point, loud chatter was heard outside, growing nearer, and soon enough the front door swung open, several small figures darting in with haste, followed by a very out of breath older hobbit.

The taller hobbit leant on the door, his face glowing a rosy red as he heaved deep breaths, and we all watched as several hobbit children scampered around, yelling with glee as smiles plastered each of their similar faces. All of them had mops of brown curly hair, varying in shades, lengths and styles, that swished around as they tumbled down the hallway. Though that came to a stop as they reached the kitchen.

The tallest of the children entered first and immediately froze, her large, dark blue eyes, that matched her dress, widened as they honed in on us. Another two crashed into her, causing her to stumble, and one by one the rest followed, crashing into each other until they all were stood still in the hallway, staring in with wide eyes.

Finally, the older hobbit caught up, his hands on his knees as he tried to catch his breath. He wore a grey button-up, tucked into a simple pair of brown trousers held up by suspenders of the same brown colour. A striking pair of dark blue eyes that matched the tallest child in front of him were slightly hidden by a mass of dark brown curls that spiralled down just past his pointed ears. His eyes were wide, darting around as his face held an awkward expression at the sight of the four of us.

“My love,” he greeted Gladiola, who gave him a warm smile in return. “I uhh – didn’t… realise we were having guests today?”

“Are you an elf?”

My body jerked slightly, startled as I looked down to find one of the smaller kids had silently approached me, and was now staring up with giant brown doe eyes as she poked at my knee.

“Uhhhh, no?” I answered confusedly.

“But you’re so tall?!” This time it was one of the boys that spoke up, hurrying over to join what I guessed was his sister to where I was stood by the stove.

“She has long straight hair like an elf!”

“And look! Her ears are pointy!”

“Ah, no,” I answered with a nervous laugh, “They just look pointy when I face forward.” I turned my head and pointed at my ear. “I can assure you they’re round.”

The two of them looked like they didn’t believe a word I said, and I felt myself begin to sweat slightly at the pressure of their staring. That was, until the girl glanced at Kay, and immediately set her sights on her.

“What about you!” She exclaimed, causing Kay to jump in her seat. “Are you an elf?!”

“She not tall enough.” Said the boy, and I burst out laughing at the sight of Kay’s offended face, her mouth open in shock. “Maybe she’s half elf.”

“Melba! Rothad! That’s enough!”

Gladiola’s voice resonated through the room, silencing the two kids.

“Sorry ma.” They both said in unison.

“Mum, who are these people?” Piped up the tallest who had come through first. She was definitely the eldest of the group, her protective nature showing with the wary look on her face as she subconsciously picked up the smallest child and held her in her arms.

“They’re friends of Bilbo’s dearie,” Mrs Greenfoot answered. “They’re staying here for a while, so I’ll be making them both some outfits to fit in.”

“But I thought Bilbo didn’t like outsiders?” Revealed the eldest, much to Bilbo’s chagrin.

“W-well it’s not that I dislike everyone who comes through the Shire,” He defended with a red tint to his ears. “I’ve just happened to have some unfortunate encounters with the men of Bree during the odd visit, that’s all.”

The eldest looked unconvinced, her brows pinched as she pinned him with an intense glare, causing Bilbo to shrink in his chair slightly at the sight of the challenging child.

Gladiola quickly went to break the tension, distracting her eldest child with a suggestion to introduce everyone, to which she did.

“My name is Menegilda, and these are my sisters, Melba, Berylla and Lalia.” She gestured to the girls on her right, then to the three boys grinning on her left. “And these are my brothers, Rothad, Griffo and Madoc. Also, this is our father.” She pointed her dad who had sneaked passed the seven kids, and was pouring himself a cup of tea.

He gave us both a warm grin, walking over to give his wife a kiss on the forehead, before introducing himself. “Gilbert, it’s lovely to meet you both, and to see you again Bilbo!” He clapped the other hobbit on the back, sitting down on the chair by Gladiola, who turned towards us.

“I hope you guys are up for the challenge, cause you’ve got seven kids to look after.” She said.

Her sentence was met with a wide range of reactions: Kay and I nodded in agreement, whilst Gilbert slumped in his chair with a sigh of relief (turns out he likes having his weekends off with the kids, but it was nice to have a break sometimes). The children were a mix, most of them shouting in excitement whilst others like Menegilda and Madoc – who were the eldest of the group – looked unsure at the thought of strangers looking after them. I didn’t blame them though, I’ve had my fair share of babysitters in the past, and not knowing them beforehand made things a little awkward when it came to them telling you what to do.

Though we no longer had any choice on whether or not we wanted to get to know them, because the two of us were instantly swept away, Melba and Rothad in the lead as they dragged us further into the house. I gave Kay an exasperated look.

“I think I’m gonna have a hard time remembering all these names.” I whispered as much as I could over the yelling.

Kay scoffed. “But you can recite the names of over eighty Transformers characters? It shouldn’t be that hard.” She smirked as I pouted with a frown.

 It wasn’t long before Kay and I found ourselves sat on the floor of one of the kid’s bedrooms, being prodded with questions as some played with our hair, whilst the others scurried around the room, grabbing random things of theirs to show us. Menegilda had remained in the corner at first, but soon enough she was sat in front of us with the youngest in her lap – Lalia – after seeing my wrist splint and asking how it happened, but now she quietly spoke about what the seven of them usually got up to.

Hours passed, and we found ourselves waving goodbye to the Greenfoot family, exhausted from the children’s constant playing, and full from both Bilbo and Mr & Mrs Greenfoot effortlessly putting together the last 4 meals of the hobbit day - Luncheon, Afternoon Tea, Dinner and Supper. As a thanks, I promised to make another batch of Victorian sponge cakes, much to the excitement of the large family at the thought of trying a new type of pudding. And with that, the two of us and Bilbo finally made our way up the grassy path, dimly lit by the dying light of the golden hour, ready to go to bed.

25 Days Later – T.A. 25th October 2939 of the Third Age (1339 in Shire-reckoning)

It had been almost a month since we were introduced to the Greenfoot family, and things had been getting better. Kay’s concussion had finally cleared, the dizzy spells it caused now completely gone, and the large cut on her forehead was slowly losing its scabbing. We also found out, much to Kay’s relief, that her spinal injury was simply a bruised bone, and the blood-red bruising on her back had finally begun to turn into a mottled green-yellow.

As for me, my ribs were slow on their recovery journey, my breathing still painful from time to time depending how much rest I had that day. My ankle had stopped swelling finally, after Erard had found out I had been up and about too much for his liking and had threatened to twist the other ankle if I didn’t take bed rest. He came in once a week to check up on us and change my wrist splint, which apparently wasn’t going to fully heal for another 4-8 weeks, much to my disappointment. The large gash on my hand was my least favourite to think about – it was fine, not infected or anything, but it wasn’t nice to look at the reddened, gnarly raised skin, knowing that soon there would be an ugly white jagged scar replacing what was once the smooth skin of my palm. I also hated the fact that every time I looked at it, I would be reminded of what was probably the most terrifying and painful night of my life. But apart from that, all our other scratches and bruises had disappeared, apart from the larger cuts scarring slightly here and there.

A knock sounded at my bedroom door, and I was snapped out my thoughts as Kay called through, saying that Gladiola was in the kitchen with some of the clothes she’d made and if I was able to come out. Standing up from my bed, I approached the door and opened it, following Kay to the kitchen.

We spotted Mrs Greenfoot as we entered the kitchen, greeting her as she hauled a large bundle of cream coloured material onto the table. Pulling it apart, she separated it into two piles, picking something out of one of them, before unravelling it.

I gasped in delight as I recognised the shape of clothing that spanned that was longer than Gladiola herself.

“A shift!” I exclaimed excitedly. “I’ve always wanted to make one of these!”

“Well now you have one!” Gladiola announced proudly as she admired her work. “It’s only a simple undergarment, but the cotton is breathable enough for you both to wear it comfortably under any outfit.” She explained.

We both chattered excitedly with the hobbit, who had handed us our garments along with a set of cotton pants and a type of chest covering that was similar to a modern bra, and ushered us off to try them all on to check that they fitted well.

Twirling around, I admired the shift as much as I could in the small mirror on top of the dresser, watching as it swayed with my movement. It was only an undergarment, but for some reason it made me feel so happy and giddy inside.

Sitting on the bed, I slipped on the knitted socks, admiring the patterns in the cream colour that wound and twisted upwards until it reached halfway up my shins. Wiggling my toes at the soft feel of the wool, I stood up and bounded out the door, eager to show Mrs Greenfoot how well everything had fitted.

Kay appeared not long after me, sporting her own matching shift and set of socks. Gladiola was immediately upon us, tugging and prodding at the fabric to check if it fitted her standards. Apparently it did, and she relaxed back onto her heels with a satisfied huff.

“It looks like nothing needs adjusting, are you both happy with what you have so far?” she asked looking up at us. We both nodded with a ‘mhm’, smiles on our faces. “Brilliant, I best be off then, got a linen delivery coming in the hour.”

“Wait!” I blurted, and quickly hurried to the pantry, much to the surprise of the hobbit. I returned not long after with a basket in my arms, a light blue tartan cloth draped over the top of it, and handed it over. “We made some scones for you to take home, and there’s some clotted cream and strawberry jam that Bilbo taught us how to make in there as well.”

Gladiola let out a noise of delight as she lifted the cloth up to reveal a batch of giant scones, taking a deep breath of the freshly baked scents. We walked her to the door as she thanked us both, and waved as she disappeared down the hill.

Returning to our rooms as it was now late in the evening, I busied myself with tidying up, before sitting down and playing around with the ribbons on my dresser and trying to see what hairstyles suited the heatless curls I had put in last night . Deciding on a loose low ponytail that allowed my light fringe and curtain bangs to flow freely, I tightened the ribbon, and froze on the spot.

That same feeling had returned. The same one from almost a month ago when I thought I was going to be mauled to death by some ghost-looking beast. I still hadn’t decided whether it was a dragon or a demon yet, since my fear had blocked me from remembering the creature.

I forced myself to glance the my left, using the mirror to look at the wardrobe behind me that stood ominously in the faint glow of my candle. No blue. Thank god.

But that feeling didn’t leave.

It felt like a pull – a sudden motivation to do something you hadn’t thought of. But this time it didn’t pull me towards the wardrobe. Instead I felt it wanting me to walk out the door. I stood up, but not before I opened one of my drawers, taking the sharp sewing scissors and zipping them into the pocket of the waterproof coat I had worn when we dropped into Middle Earth. Slipping the coat over the shift I was wearing, I kept the wool socks on and slid on my walking boots, grimacing at the small splashes of old blood stains that scattered the material.

Picking up a lantern and lighting it, I quietly made my way through the hallways and reached the front entrance, before a voice called out.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

I spun around, staring into the darkness that stretched beyond the light of my lantern, until I spotted a concerned Bilbo as he emerged from the shadows holding a candle.

“Uhhhhh, just for a walk.”

“At night.” He deadpanned.

“I think all this bed rest is making me restless.” I half-lied, since it was kinda true.

He eyed me suspiciously, but backed down. “Alright, but be no longer than half an hour.”

I nodded, and after he disappeared back into his room, I opened the door and crept into the night.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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Chances are I may be going on a small hiatus, but if not, see you soon for Chapter 18! Also please comment if you want to be added to the Taglist <3

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[rndyounghowze]

What You Might Not Know About…

Jacques Ze Whipper

Jack Lepiarz or “Jaques Ze Whipper” or “Jack the Whipper” has been whipping it good for about fourteen years now. You may know him from his appearance on America’s Got Talent when he whipped a piece of straw from between Simon Cowell’s legs. You may also know him from his viral short videos where he sings parodies to songs like “All the Single Ladies” or the Animaniacs “Yakko’s World” song all while cracking the whip to keep time. However, there are some things about Jaques that you might not know about. We got to chat with him for a short while to bring you some trivia like…

Jack Comes From a Circus Family

“I grew up in the circus. We were with the Big Apple Circus until I was about 6 years old and then we did a bunch of Renaissance Faires when I was a kid. I have a weird parentage. My father is a circus performer (His father John Lepiarz currently “Mr. Fish” with the Super Scientific Circus) . My mother, now retired, was a college professor of anthropology with a doctorate in anthropology. She was very big on me getting a normal education so I kinda split time between normal school and the circus growing up.”

Jack Started On The Streets Of Boston

 “I went to Emerson College. I’m like ‘I have all these circus skills, why don’t I just try to do some street performing and see how that goes?’ It went as well as you would expect for someone who’s not very polished to go, which is that it went alright, there was nothing catastrophic, but it wasn’t great work. But it helped me kind of polish the act. Then I was like ‘well alright now I have this slightly more polished act let me do Renaissance Faires’ so I started working at King Richard’s Faire when I was twenty. 

Father’s Advice 

“My father, who had done the Renaissance Faire circuit for years, said ‘well what makes a good, successful Ren Faire act is the character and the comedy. You don’t have to be the most talented circus performer as long as you can make people laugh and keep them engaged and a character is a great way to do that.’ One of the things that we wanted to do is to make the whips less threatening. We kind of played around with the idea of being a goofy character and that didn’t quite translate. We decided to try being the French character because, you know, everyone at the Ren Faire is English, Irish,  Scottish. There aren’t a lot of French characters at the Renaissance Faire. We tried that for a couple of days and it went alright. Then the last day of my first weekend I drew on the mustache and it was like everything clicked. People understood this show is dumb and that it’s okay to laugh.”

Jaques Fans Are Why He’s On Tik Tok 

“[In 2021] a couple of longtime fans of mine came to my show, recorded bits of the show, put up 30-40 second clips of the show on Tik Tok and the first one got like three hundred thousand views, the second one got two million views and the third one got two point two million views. I was like ‘oh okay apparently there is a demand for Jaques Ze Whipper in the world that I had never known’. So I started on Tik Tok and from there it’s kinda been like, as I find I have the brain space to expand I expand to a new social media and so from there I went to Instagram and from there I went to Facebook and then Youtube.”

Digital Show 

“As my following has grown on social media there are these people who are like ‘come to the UK, come to Germany, come to Indonesia’. There’s no way for me right now to easily get to those places and even if I could get to those places the amount it would cost for me to get there would be prohibitive for a lot of people. So I said ‘why don’t I do this show where we can kinda do the best of my show and the secret show that I do with Ses Carny and by making it a digital show what we could do is get people from all over the world and that helps us keep the price point pretty low’. Ten bucks is still too expensive for some people that I’ve talked to but I think that it’s reachable for most people who are fans of mine. You could get four people to all pitch in $2.50 and just share one ticket. That’s fine. 

My plan is to do a show like this every year around this time for as long as WBUR will have me. We did a walk through in the theatre this week and they said they’re fully on board for another show next year and the year beyond that so I think my plan is: once a year do a digital show like this and assuming the interest is still there bring in other performers and kind of make it ‘Jacque’s Circus Hour’ and use it as a way to profile some of my wonderful colleagues who I think are just as if not more talented than me who just for some reason or another haven’t gone viral yet”.

The Physical Toll 

“A lot of people don’t understand quite how physical the show is and the amount of work that goes into making sure that my body is able to hold up under the stress of the show. The last couple of years I have been semi injured while performing and it’s been amazing how something as little as [spraining] my wrist in August of 2021 and the entire ‘21 season…there were certain tricks that I could not do without a lot of pain. Then this past season I tweaked something in my right shoulder just before the season started or early in the season and it never felt quite right until I had a chance to just rest it for a few weeks. (You can see this video where he sings a “Sound Of Silence” parody while remarking that his Physical Therapist would be mad because he wasn't cleared to whip with his right hand yet.)  I think that’s the biggest thing. The show is an athletic performance even as I’m just up there just cracking whips and singing songs. It is a workout.”

Get your tickets now! Virtual Ticket sales end at 5pm Eastern on Friday Jan. 27

[mintyscuriocabinet]

Attention all Irish doll collectors!!!

American Girl Mega Bloks figures are now available at Mr. Price in Ireland! I'm unsure specifically what locations do and don't stock them, but I was able to get all of series one for less than €10. Be sure to keep an eye out!

[dweemeister]

I Know Where I’m Going! (1945)

If not for World War II, Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger might not have made I Know Where I’m Going! Looking to film a high-concept Technicolor feature that eventually became A Matter of Life and Death (1946; AKA Stairway to Heaven), the duo encountered trouble when they learned that almost every Technicolor camera in non-occupied Western Europe was being used to make Allied military training films. So while biding their time, they looked to film a story that Pressburger pounded out on his typewriter in four days. Originally known as The Misty Island, I Know Where I’m Going! is a poignant romance containing dollops of comedy, Scottish folklore, and traces of adventure. Aided by the misty oceanic landscapes and two subtle (but worthy) central performances, this movie from the Archers (the production company for Powell and Pressburger, but also a nickname for the two) balances its earthiness and mysticism to form an effective romantic drama.

After a narrated prologue/opening credits fast forwarding through the first twenty-five years of her life, the Mancunian woman Joan Webster (Wendy Hiller) departs home to the Hebrides in order to marry industrialist Sir Robert Bellinger (voiced by Norman Shelley). Joan has never met the much older Sir Bellinger, who lives on the fictional Isle of Kiloran. A multipart journey involving trains and boats takes place – all on time, exactly as Sir Bellinger’s travel itinerary has laid out for Joan. Following a fascinating montage travel scene thanks to editor John Seabourne, Sr. (1943’s The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp, 1957’s A King in New York), Joan arrives at her final stop before the boat to Kiloran – the Isle of Mull. There, Joan finally has a delay in her travel schedule. Inclement weather for the next few days will make passage impossible. There, she meets Royal Navy officer Torquil MacNeil (Roger Livesey), who is on leave from the service. The two stay the night at a friend of Torquil’s, Catriona Potts (Pamela Brown), and her overeager Irish Wolfhounds. Joan soon learns that Torquil is the Laird of Kiloran and – with the poor conditions not improving – he gladly shows Joan many of the locals and sights. Gradually, Joan’s emotional walls crumble, leaving her making a choice unanticipated and uncharacteristic.

The colorful cast of supporting actors include C.W.R. Knight as the falconer Colonel Barnstaple, Finlay Currie as the sailor Ruairidh Mhór, George Carney as Joan’s father, Nancy Price as Mrs. Crozier, and Catherine Lacey as the busybody Mrs. Robinson. Thirteen-year-old Petula Clark is Cheril, the Robinsons’ daughter.

How in the world did Pressburger type out this screenplay (the writing credit also goes to Powell) in a few days? The Archers came into pre-production knowing what sort of story they wished to tell. Intending to carry over the anti-materialist messages from their previous film – 1944’s A Canterbury Tale – they juxtapose constantly the idea of Joan’s idea of marrying a rich husband with the poor and working-class background of the Isle of Mull’s residents. The origins of Joan’s affluent tastes, established in the opening sequence over the opening credits, are never fully explained. Is it a legacy of living in extremely class-conscious early 20th century England? Perhaps a coping mechanism or compensating for some personal shortcoming? Whatever it is, it makes Joan’s progression as a character and the climactic decisions of the film feel less believable than they should be. This is, for me, the glaring hole in an otherwise fine screenplay from the Archers. The superb performances from Hiller and Livesey almost remedy my qualms here.

And what performances they deliver. Wendy Hiller had been primarily a stage actress by the time she made a leap into the movies. The second film she made was the 1938 adaptation of George Bernard Shaw’s Pygmalion, in which she played Eliza Doolittle. She became the first British actress to receive an Academy Award acting nomination in a British movie as a result. With her stock on the rise and looking forward to working with her, Powell and Pressburger signed her up to play the female lead in The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp. But her second pregnancy forced her to step away from the production, leaving that role to Deborah Kerr. In I Know Where I’m Going!, Hiller has to exercise restraint for almost all of this film. As much as I criticized the on-paper believability of the Joan and Torquil’s developing relationship in the preceding paragraph, Hiller does her darndest to sell it. Her initial indifference to Scotland’s charms wears down as she contemplates her situation and begins to accept the slower pace of life far from the comfortable trappings of middle-class Manchester.

It takes a second performance to make all this work, and Roger Livesey does so ably. Livesey is no Laurence Olivier or Leslie Howard in terms of conventional handsomeness, but he terrifically complements Hiller in their moments together. Patient and kind to the Englishwoman who initially thinks little of the people and the places surrounding her, Torquil is no foil to Joan (this is not exactly an attraction of opposites), but their upbringings and views of tradition are markedly different. Livesey portrays this difference well in his vocal inflections and his bemused facial acting. Most viewers might not notice, but despite I Know Where I’m Going! being shot mostly on-location, Livesey never left London during production. Livesey was part of a play in London’s West End, and that production’s producers would not allow him to leave for Scotland to take part in the on-location shooting. So, for any exterior scenes in this film, Hiller is interacting with a body double. Look closer and you will notice that Livesey is always shot in close-up whenever the film’s narrative is outdoors.

By the time Pressburger completed the screenplay and filming began in the second half of 1944, Allied victory in Europe seemed to be drawing near. After several years of war – at times unsure whether the United Kingdom might survive the Axis onslaught – thoughts inevitably turned to what life might be like again once the guns fell silent. British social changes during wartime, whether by popular practice or by Parliamentary law, led the average British person to believe in a postwar society less class-conscious and economically fairer for all. We never see Sir Roger Bellinger in I Know Where I’m Going!, but there are implications he has profited from fueling the Allied war machine. There are other hints that Sir Bellinger is unaware of how his less wealthier neighbors act, that he is lacking the social etiquette and consciousness to interact with anybody outside his stratified circles (see: his manner of speech while speaking over the radio and his overly detailed itinerary for Joan regarding the trip from Manchester to Kiloran).

Meanwhile, the residents on the Isle of Mull are uniformly depicted as free-wheeling, fun-loving, and content with the human companionship and natural beauty – shot beautifully by cinematographer Erwin Hillier, who often was instructed by Powell to suspend shooting if the sky was too clear, and to wait until some clouds dotted the landscape – they have. The war is far from their concerns (the only explicit mention of WWII in the film might be that Torquil is on leave from the Royal Navy), almost as if it was not happening at all. The philosophies driving the violent on continental Europe and those spoken through the halls in Westminster seem as faraway as Shangri-La in Frank Capra’s Lost Horizon (1937). In place of the economics and politics of war, Gaelic dialogue, legends, and song fill the time as the isle’s residents go about their self-sufficient livelihoods.

Though, in terms of chronology, I Know Where I’m Going! takes place during WWII, it feels like the Archers’ first postbellum film. From 49th Parallel (1941) to The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp to the preceding A Canterbury Tale, the duo’s entire filmography by this point was rife with propaganda or propaganda-adjacent work (The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp is an exception, but it is heavily defined by three separate periods of British wartime). Taken in conjunction with Joan’s romantic second-guessing, I Know Where I’m Going! advocates for the needs of the heart from the moment Joan steps foot in Scotland. More broadly, it expresses hope that Britons can hold fast to more egalitarian principles once World War II concludes.

Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger’s Technicolor expressionism as seen in A Matter of Life and Death, The Red Shoes (1948), and The Tales of Hoffmann (1951) was not yet in evidence. That would come only with greater artistic freedom, British audiences being able to separate their reputations from their earlier wartime work, and greater funds for those later works. The duo’s artistic vision, however, is without question in I Know Where I’m Going! The scene depicting the Corryvreckan whirlpool is stunning visual effects work (inspired by Moses’ parting of the Red Sea in Cecil B. DeMille’s original 1923 silent version of The Ten Commandments), in addition to the expressive lighting and cinematography of the exterior Scottish scenes.

On the other side of the Atlantic, I Know Where I’m Going! was no financial blockbuster, but it was a commercial and critical success in America. Some time after its release, Powell and Pressburger learned that I Know Where I’m Going! was shown to contracted writers at Paramount Pictures to exemplify, “how a perfect screenplay should be constructed.” Now, there might be no such thing as a “perfect” screenplay – and I hardly think I Know Where I’m Going! is close to that conversation if there is one – but it is certainly an inspired choice to teach screenwriters how to structure their narratives, appropriate places for narration, and how to build a relationship between two characters (which still requires some assistance from the actors).

In the years after making I Know Where I’m Going!, Powell deemed the film the “sweetest” he ever made with Pressburger. The down-to-earth humor and affection for the land and its people is always apparent, a quieter work amid the din of a war near its end. Through Joan and Torquil, the Archers express a social ideal unimaginable for many Britons even decades prior to this film’s release. Amid their many other works with war at the forefront, I Know Where I’m Going! lays bare its aspirations of life simply lived, the only sort of life worth living.

My rating: 8/10

^ Based on my personal imdb rating. My interpretation of that ratings system can be found in the “Ratings system” page on my blog (as of July 1, 2020, tumblr is not permitting certain posts with links to appear on tag pages, so I cannot provide the URL).

For more of my reviews tagged “My Movie Odyssey”, check out the tag of the same name on my blog.

[mrprice-official]

That's a picture of the Cliffs of Moher, Co. Galway

[mistydeyes]

If you are still doing cod pairings, would you pair me please.

I am 5"4' with brown wavy harir with blond highlights. I have hazel eyes that change color with my mood. I have curves and am very self conscious of my weight. My typical dress is jeans and tshirt. I am very laid back. I can be the center of attention, or I can sit back and let someone else get the attention. I teach history to teenagers, so I'm kinda always perverted.

I love to read and travel. I am working on learning another language, and I will be starting my masters in Library Science this fall.

That's all I can think of right now.

I love your writing, and loved that Ghost was in leather and chains in the strip club. Price as a cowboy was... (chefs kiss).

Thank you so much!!

Simon "Ghost" Riley (a/n thank you so much for your kind words! literally that series has become one of my favorites and it makes me laugh and blush a lil when i re-read them)

How you met: As the newlyweds made their way into the ballroom, Simon found his seat at the wedding party table. Price had made the 141 his groomsmen and he sat in a black tuxedo as he casually sipped his bourbon. "Looks like this is me," you said as you took a seat next to him. You smoothed down your long purple silk dress and placed your bouquet on the table. "I see you took advantage of the open bar, gotta get me one of those," you said as you gestured to Simon's half filled glass. "Bourbon here is good," he replied as he took another long sip. "I'm more of an Irish Whiskey girl myself," you said as you looked around for the bar. The speeches were just about to start and you could see Kyle thumbing over his pile of notecards. "Tell you what, come take a shot because I know Garrick is going to have us here for a while," you told Simon before quietly getting up from your chair. Simon hesitated for a moment but as he saw the sheer number of cards in Kyle's hand, he followed you. You reached the bar and ordered. "A whiskey sour and two Three Wise Men shots please," you asked and the bartender quickly prepared your ordered. "Three Wise Men?" Simon asked as you handed the shot to him. "A delicious concoction of Johnnie Walker, Jim Beam, and Jack Daniels," you smirked and clicked your shot glasses together. Simon impressively watched as you downed it effortlessly, even he was left with his mouth slightly burning from the liquor heavy combination. That night after making jokes about the other wedding guests and talking about an impressive amount of British history, he was glad that you were sat next to him.

A peek into your relationship: You proudly held your diploma in your hand as you walked off stage. Your family, Simon, and your best friend along with her husband (the ones who were the reason you and Simon met), cheered loudly as you took your seat. The ceremony wrapped up soon after and you went to find them in the crowd. You finally received your Masters of Library Science and were on top of the world. It wasn't hard spotting Simon as he stood a good head above the crowd. You waved to him as you maneuvered your way through the other graduates. "Congratulations!" you little entourage exclaimed and you thanked all of them for coming. Mr. and Mrs. Price had given you a gorgeous arrangement of flowers and Simon held them as you took pictures with your friends and family. Your mum even managed to snag a picture of Simon smiling at you as you excitedly showed off your diploma. When all the commotion died down, Simon was able to hand you his gift. The bag was heavy and you pulled out a book with your favorite history era as its title. On the inside it read, "To my favorite librarian," You smiled at his sincerity and kissed his cheek as he hugged you tightly. "Let's go celebrate, my love," you said and held his hand as you went to your graduation dinner.

[chic-a-gigot]

Cover details.

Le Petit écho de la mode, no. 8, vol. 29, 24 février 1907, Paris. Chapeau en tulle et velours noir, modèle de Mme Ch. Desbruères, 217, rue St-Honoré. Plastron en vraie Irlande. Ville de Paris / Bibliothèque Forney

Chapeau en tulle noir légèrement soulevé de côté, garni de velours et plumes noires.

Plastron en vraie Irlande (modèle du no. 14 du Petit Echo de la Broderie, qui donne le travail en grandeur naturelle avec l’explication détaillée et le prix de vente). La guipure imitation d’irlaode écran ou blanche, nécessaire pour faire le plastron. Prix: 2fr.95. Le mètre, sur 0m,46 de large, coûte 5 fr. 25. Adresser mandat-poste à M. Orsoni, 5, rue Lemaignan, Paris (XIV arr.).

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Black tulle hat slightly raised to the side, trimmed with velvet and black feathers.

Plastron in real Irish lace (model from no. 14 of Petit Echo de la Broderie, which gives the work in full size with detailed explanation and sale price). The imitation Irish screen or white guipure, necessary to make the bib. Price: 2.95 fr. Yardage, 0.46 meters wide, costs 5.25 fr. Send money order to Mr. Orsoni, 5, rue Lemaignan, Paris (XIV arr.).

[jembrooke]

Sir James Jebusa Shannon, R.A. (1862-1923)

The Silver Ship

Price realisedGBP 33,460

The son of Irish parents James Jebusa Shannon was born in Auburn, New York. Aged sixteen he camed to London in 1878 and studied at the Government Art Training School, South Kensington. He made his debut at the Royal Academy aged 19 when he exhibited a portrait of the Hon. Horatia Stopford in 1881, and Mrs Henry Bourke in 1882, both portraits of Ladies in Waiting having been commissioned by Queen Victoria. Although he received his art education in England, Shannon was touched by the current fashion for square-brush handling which emanated from the Paris ateliers. By the mid-1890s he was considered 'as virtually court painter for Violet, Duchess of Rutland' (Kenneth McConkey, Edward Portraits, Woodbridge, 1987, p. 119). She was an amateur artist remarkable for her precocious talent and was exhibiting professionally by the age of twenty-two at the Grosvenor Gallery, newly opened by her cousin Sir Coutts Lindsay. She was one of the most brilliant members of the aristocratic and aesthetic circle known as 'The Souls' and her outstanding beauty inspired several of the leading artists of the day including Jacques Emile Blanche and George Frederic Watts, although Shannon was her favourite.

George Moore acknowledged him as 'the man born to paint English duchesses' despite considering him socially ambitious and it is said that wives lingered in front of his work and demanded of their husbands 'Why can't you afford to let me be painted by Mr Shannon?'. He was a founder member of the New English Art Club in 1886 and exhibited there under Whistler's regime but resigned in 1892. During the 1890s his style broadened under the influence of Sargent, so much so that he was even considered by some as his rival. Shannon was awarded medals for portraiture in Paris, Berlin and Vienna, and his paintings The Flower Girl and Phil May were purchased by the Chantrey Bequest for the Tate Gallery in 1901. In 1901 he became the President of the Royal Society of Portrait Painters and he became a full Academician in 1909 He was knighted in 1922.

It is likely that The Silver Ship dates from the 1890s as during that decade there were a number of small-scale fashion revivals including the leg-of-mutton sleeve which became increasingly voluminous in the mid-1890s. These 'balloon' sleeves, very much in evidence here, were often worn off-the-shoulder and terminated in deep forearm cuffs of the sort which had been popular in the reign of Louis Philippe.

Shannon painted several works of this period in which the subject was in an 'action pose'. For this he was considered 'an artist and a portrait painter afterwards' by Lewis Hind writing in the Studio (1896; vol. VII, p. 68). The lady in The Silver Ship is as yet unidentified and poses holding the object of the title. Aesthetic harmony is of paramount importance over and above likeness and it was this aesthetic interest that gave Shannon his international standing and recognition.

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Widow loses life savings after ‘firetrap’ developer fails to repay €150k loan

A controversial developer who asked to borrow the life savings of an 81-year-old widow has failed to repay the money after half a decade of broken promises.

In 2017, the widow gave €160,000 in cash to developer Paddy Byrne, who built the Millfield Manor estate in Co. Kildare where six houses burnt to the ground in under 30 minutes in 2015.

The cash was for a penthouse apartment in Dublin she planned to move into.

The development was built by Victoria Homes, a company that was established by Mr Byrne’s sister Joan just before Mr Byrne was precluded from acting as a company director in Ireland for five years.

After viewing plans for the €630,000 property, in a development called Greygates in Mount Merrion, the pensioner withdrew the cash from her bank and gave it to Mr Byrne.

Some €10,000 of this was a deposit, with the remaining €150,000 provided on the advice of a third party who was known to Mr Byrne and the widow, who said the cash would secure a good price.

According to a handwritten receipt, signed by Mr Byrne, the money was provided on May 29, 2017.

But in November 2017 the widow, a retired primary school teacher, found a more suitable home and asked for her money back.

Mr Byrne agreed to this, saying he would have no problem selling the penthouse and promptly refunded the €10,000 deposit.

However, he asked that the remaining €150,000 be treated as a 14-month loan and promised to pay a 10% annual interest rate.

This effectively turned the widow into an unwitting creditor of Victoria Homes.

According to a handwritten agreement, signed by Mr Byrne, the loan was to be ‘paid back from the sales proceeds’ of the penthouse at his Greygates development.

More than half a decade later, the loan remains unpaid – even after the widow made a criminal complaint to gardaí and took legal action to secure a judgement.

As it is a civil matter, the Garda investigation faltered. And because various other unpaid creditors had previously secured judgements against Victoria Homes, the widow is now unlikely to get her savings back. During the Celtic Tiger years, Paddy Byrne was renowned for his €2.4m Sikorsky helicopter and sponsorship of the Irish National Hunt festival.

But in 2011 his then-firm, Barrack Homes, went bust and Mr Byrne declared bankruptcy in Britain with debts of €100m.

He was banned from acting as a UK director for 10 years in 2012.

This ban was scheduled to end in 2022 – and ran the full course – but it only applied in the UK and Wales.

According to the UK insolvency register today, Mr Byrne’s discharge from UK bankruptcy is ‘suspended indefinitely’ until the fulfilment of conditions made in a 2012 court order.

Separately, in Ireland, he was also restricted from acting as a director for a period of five years – which ended in January 2018.

Mr Byrne is also known for building the Millfield Manor estate in Newbridge, Co. Kildare, where half a dozen houses were razed to the ground within 30 minutes in 2015.

A report into the blaze found ‘major and life-threatening serious shortfalls and discrepancies and deviations from the minimum requirements of the national mandatory building regulations’ at Mr Byrne’s development.

Today, having exited bankruptcy, Mr Byrne is best known as the figurehead behind Victoria Homes and associated businesses, which was set up by his sister and her husband in December 2012, while he was bankrupt.

Mr Byrne was not a director or owner of Victoria Homes during the period of his bankruptcy. But, in 2017, Mr Byrne’s sister and her husband stepped back from Victoria Homes, transferring their shares to an offshore entity in Belize city called Victoria Holdings.

In November 2022, the main lenders to Victoria Homes – the Lotus Development Group – forced the firm into receivership for the second time.

In 2020, Lotus had forced a previous short-lived receivership before agreeing a deal that saw Victoria Homes begin trading normally once more.

Today, Mr Byrne appears to have left Victoria Homes behind and seems to be focusing on a new firm instead.

Set up in the summer of 2020, Branach Developments is entirely owned by Mr Byrne and is not encumbered by any bank debt or mortgages as Victoria Homes was.

According to the latest filed accounts, for the year ended 2021, Branach Developments held ‘tangible assets’ of €210,000 and ‘stocks’ of €600,000.

The accounts also show that, in 2021, Mr Byrne provided the company with an interest-free loan of €1,024,438.

Just last week Mr Byrne’s new firm was one of the winners at the National Property Awards sponsored by the Business Post and Deloitte, among others.

At the award ceremony, Branach Developments took home the prize for best sustainability initiative of the year.

However, Mr Byrne, who shuns publicity and is rarely photographed, does not appear to have attended the ceremony and the award was accepted by a colleague.

This week the Irish Mail on Sunday sent queries to Mr Byrne via his mobile phone, his email at Victoria Homes and his email at Branach Developments, without response.

Queries to his solicitor and the separate accountancy firms representing Victoria Homes and Branach Developments also went unanswered as did calls to the numbers on the websites of these firms.

Mr Byrne also previously declined to respond to questions from the MoS relating to the establishment of Victoria Homes during the period of his bankruptcy.

At the time, Mr Byrne appeared to be living at Ballinrahin House, close to Rathangan on the border of Offaly and Kildare.

The home is a luxury build on 26 acres of stud-railed paddocks with six stables and a 1.3km tree-lined avenue behind electric gates.

The property was on sale for €2.8m in 2009, but land registry records confirm that, in November 2014, it was sold to Victoria Homes for a knockdown price of €484,000.

Ownership of Ballinrahin House was transferred offshore to Victoria Holdings in Belize on April 10, 2018, just weeks before Mr Byrne was due to repay the €150,000 back to the widow.

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New Mr Price store to open in Doughiska https://galwaybayfm.ie/galway-bay-fm-news-desk/new-mr-price-store-to-open-in-doughiska/