#scottish harbour

[maximilian7182]

Today's "point" of my journey contains the beautiful name Leven. I invite you to take a look with me at the amazing architecture of Leven and the splendor of it's carefully landscaped coastal area. Leven  is a seaside town in Fife, set in the east Central Lowlands of Scotland. It lies on the coast of the Firth of Forth at the mouth of the River Leven 

[vox-anglosphere]

Isle-of-Mull

[scotianostra]

Newhaven.

[racingliners]

assumptions game thing: your favorite class in school was english

Nope! It was actually one of my least favourite subjects, mainly because I didn't have the best teachers in my last year of high school (oh the irony of me being a fic writer with a journalism degree).

My favourite subjects were actually Chemistry, Biology and Modern Studies (a Scottish only thing to the best of my knowledge, it's like a hybrid of Politics and Social Studies).

what assumptions do you have about me based on my blog

[croakingravenstudio]

“Boats Moored in Oban Harbour”.

Pastel drawing on smooth 300gsm paper, approx 110mm x 117mm.

Boats moored in the harbour at Oban, Scotland.

[cjjasp]

#FineArtFriday: Newhaven Harbour on the Firth of Forth by Samuel Bough

Artist: Samuel Bough  (1822–1878) Title: Newhaven Harbour on the Firth of Forth Date: Unknown date Medium: pencil and watercolor, heightened with white Dimensions: height: 25.4 cm (10 in); width: 35.6 cm (14 in) Inscriptions: Signature bottom left: Sam Bough What I love about this painting: This is a faithful record of a sunny summer day at a busy harbor on Scotland’s Firth of Forth, painted…

[chrisburke]

Weekend walk ☁️

[tonyb-blog]

Visiting the Scottish Borders - Part 1

[ltwilliammowett]

Superstitions of Scotland's fishermen

Perhaps due to the dangers of their profession or their interdependence, fishing communities developed their own unique customs and folklore. They were close-knit and conservative, and their names, food and way of life differed from those of the neighbouring population. There was often rivalry even between different fishing villages, and they rarely married outside their own community.

Because of the dangerous nature of their work, they were unusually superstitious, as were all those involved with the sea. There were words that were considered very unlucky, for example the word minister was never mentioned - he was called the man in the black coat, and the words hare, salmon (red fish), rat (long tail), pig (curly tail) and salt were among the most forbidden words. If the men came across a hare, a dog or a red-haired man, they refused to set sail, and if they found a rabbit, a hare, a pigeon or a dove on board, they certainly did not disembark. The antidote to bad luck was to touch cauld iron.

Other customs were associated with sailing and fishing. For example, it was bad luck to cast the nets on the port side, to taste the food before the first fish was caught or not to take the blood of the first fish. In some places, fights were instigated so that blood could be spilt before the fleet set sail. Some boats were considered unlucky in themselves because they had the wrong names or did not behave according to the rules. One way to avoid bad luck was to never row against the sun (anti-clockwise) when leaving the harbour.

Rituals and spells were said to influence the weather. It was believed that you could whistle up the wind or untie it with special knots in a rope - one knot would cause a breeze, the second a hurricane and the third a storm. The weather was always expected to change on a Friday.

In some areas, other days of the week had special significance, bringing either good or bad luck. For example, most communities did not fish on Sunday, even though it was considered a lucky day. It was believed that work started on a Saturday took seven more Saturdays, while work started on a Monday was quickly completed.

Before a young man could become a fisherman, there were initiation rituals where he had to prove himself, and even today, customs and superstitions still influence the life of a fisherman. Echoes of the old customs can still be found in the villages today. However, as you may have just realised, this type of superstition is confined purely to Scottish fishermen, these types were also regularly found on ships. The reason for this was that many sailors came from the fishing villages as well as their compatriots, and so their superstitions and rituals were taken on board and spread.

[whencyclopedia]

William I of Scotland

William I of Scotland, also known as 'William the Lion' after his heraldic emblem, reigned from 1165 to 1214 CE. Succeeding his elder brother Malcolm IV of Scotland (r. 1153-1165 CE), William was faced with a shrinking kingdom, but he harboured ambitions to capture northern England, especially Northumberland. While campaigning south of the border in 1174 CE, William was ignominiously captured by English knights and imprisoned until he negotiated with Henry II of England (r. 1154-1189 CE) for his release. William was obliged to become Henry's vassal, give up key castles in Scotland and defer to the English Church. Scotland bought back its freedom from Richard I of England (r. 1189-1199 CE) but then lost it again to King John of England (r. 1199-1216 CE). Despite the ups and downs concerning his relations with English kings, William ruled Scotland for longer than any other medieval Scottish monarch and did much to consolidate his kingdom and extend the Crown's rule over the entire northern British Isles. When he died in 1214 CE he had ruled for 49 years; he was succeeded by his son Alexander II of Scotland (r. 1214-1249 CE)

Early Life

William was born c. 1142 CE, a member of the ruling House of Canmore. His mother was Ada de Warenne, daughter of the Earl of Surrey, and his father was Henry, Earl of Northumberland (d. 1152 CE), the son of David I of Scotland (r. 1124-1153 CE) who had died before he could inherit the throne. The crown had passed to David's nominated successor, his grandson Malcolm IV of Scotland, but he died of natural causes in his mid-twenties and without children. Malcolm's reign had seen Scotland lose much of the gains in English territory that his grandfather David I had acquired through battles and diplomacy. England had proved resurgent under the guidance of Henry II of England. William became king on 9 December 1165 CE and was invested at Scone on Christmas Eve.

The king's sister was the duchess of Brittany, and visits to her permitted William to participate in medieval tournaments like other European kings and nobles. William cut a dashing figure with his red hair and fighting prowess. The king's nickname 'the Lion' was a posthumous one and is most likely because William had chosen that animal as his heraldic badge. The design of this badge was a red lion rampant on a yellow background, and it became the emblem of Scottish monarchs thereafter; today it is known as the Royal Banner of Scotland. William fathered a host of illegitimate children but finally married on 5 September 1186 CE to Ermengarde de Beaumont (d. 1234 CE), herself an illegitimate descendant of Henry I of England (r. 1100-1135 CE). The couple would have four children: Alexander, Margaret, Isabel, and Marjorie.

Continue reading...

[cheriebourbon]

【 ＣＡＧＥ　ＯＦ　ＤＥＡＴＨ 】

ghost x soap — 6.5k

tags:: simon has a not-so-secret job, ghoap!, smut, bickering&tension, tf141 somewhat included, motorcyclist au.

cw:: drinking&under the influence, friendly teasing, use of cigarettes, praise&kisses, making out, tiny bit of begging, both worked up so it’s just explosive, blowjob, handjob, choking, wet&messy, overstimulation, several orgasms, anal, missionary, simon is more dominant, pet names, crying but not from pain, loose lips, simon forgets his strength and gets a bit rough, leaves his mask on for a good portion, but when taken off he is depicted as having blond hair, brown eyes, and scars all over.

notes::

hihi cherries o’ mine, I hope you’ll enjoy this fic just as much as I do. like.. gnaw on your fingernails and giggle in your bed kind of enjoyment. no such thing as crazy here, just silliness. anyways, all of my headers and icons are from pinterest:33

stay hydrated, stay healthy, much love from cerise<33

synopsis::

in which, simon riley, reveals his side job as an amusement performer for the cage of death to the tf141, and johnny mactavish, bets that if he stood in it with him driving around he won’t get scared one bit.

OR

in which, johnny mactavish, harbours a secret from simon riley, his close mate, and has to swallow back the overwhelming emotions.

The autumn breeze swept through the dimly lit pub—a place Task Force 141 had come to call their own. Nestled in a quiet corner of the city, it was a hole-in-the-wall kind of joint, just rough enough to feel like home. No prying eyes, no eavesdropping from outsiders. Just a place to talk shop without anyone batting an eye.

The drinks weren’t the finest, but they did the job. And that was all that mattered after a long mission. As usual, laughter echoed off the walls—loud, raucous, and contagious. Soap’s voice stood out, cutting through the din like a blade, his laugh punctuated by the occasional crackle. It was impossible not to join in once he started. Red faces, tears, the tang of alcohol in the air—it was all part of the ritual.

“Johnny, go on then,” Ghost chuckled, the sound deep and gravelly, still echoing with the remnants of his laughter. The corners of his mouth curled up in a teasing grin as he leaned against the weathered wooden counter, his eyes glinting with mischief.

“Let’s hear you say something in that nonsense you call language.” The atmosphere was light, charged with the playful banter between friends, and Ghost was enjoying the moment.

Soap shot Ghost a sideways glance, then slapped his arm with the back of his hand. “Gibberish? Awa’ an’ bile yer heid, L.T. Ye’ve got a better chance of me understanding yer orders than yer precious ‘Queen’s English.’” His thick Scottish accent cracked through, sending another round of laughter rippling through the table.

It was a running joke. Soap’s party trick—his native slang. It was like a secret language to them, a humor only a few could appreciate. But it always had the same effect: pure chaos. The whole group was in stitches, faces flushed and voices hoarse.

Price let out a sharp snort into his glass, the sound echoing slightly in the dimly lit room. He shook his head, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Alright, that’s quite enough out of you, Soap,” he said, his tone a mix of exasperation and camaraderie.

“If you keep it up, you’re going to give us all a damned bloody heart attack.” His eyes glinted with amusement as he glanced around at the others, who were stifling their laughter at Soap's antics.

Soap leaned back in his chair, a devilish grin spreading across his face as a mischievous gleam danced in his bright blue eyes. “Suit yourself, Cap’n,” he retorted, his tone full of playful defiance. “I was just gettin' my abs in shape from all that laughter we’ve had tonight.” He flexed his arms exaggeratedly as if showcasing a rock-hard physique.

Gaz, sitting across from him, let out a loud snort, shaking his head as he rolled his shoulders in a mock display of confidence. “Rock-hard abs, huh? Don't let the rest of us find out, or we’ll be stuck doing crunches all night!” His teasing retort was accompanied by a dramatic eye roll, making it clear he wasn’t taking the banter too seriously.

Meanwhile, Price, ever the composed leader, arched an eyebrow in amusement, the corner of his mouth twitching upward in a half-smirk. He took a deliberate sip from his cold beer, savoring the bitter taste, before quipping back with a playful edge, “You don't already have them, Garrick?” His tone was filled with jest, the light atmosphere making the jibe all the more enjoyable.

Gaz's face instantly paled at the implication, his eyes widening in exaggerated horror as he waved his hands in a frantic gesture. “Not what I meant, sir! Not what I meant at all!” he stammered, feeling the effects of the drinks kick in and the warmth of embarrassment creeping up his neck, turning the moment into a lighthearted spectacle that drew laughter from the rest of the group.

Price leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking softly under his weight, and gave Gaz a skeptical look that conveyed his disbelief. “Too bad. Might be worth another round of training, eh?” he said, a hint of challenge in his voice.

Before Gaz could muster a response, the atmosphere of the pub shifted dramatically. A deep, resonant roar pierced through the usual din of chatter and clinking glasses. A Harley-Davidson, its powerful engine reverberating like thunder, pulled up outside the establishment. Price’s expression instantly hardened; he froze in place for a moment as the familiar sound washed over him, memories flooding back like a tidal wave.

“Reminds me of the old days,” he murmured, his voice barely loud enough to break through the muted sounds of the bustling pub. His gaze was distant and contemplative, lost in a time long past.

Gaz, puzzled by the sudden shift in Price's demeanor, leaned in slightly. “Pardon, sir?” he asked, eager to understand what was going through his superior's mind.

Price blinked, as if emerging from a trance, and refocused his gaze on Gaz. “I used to own a Harley,” he explained more clearly this time, a tinge of nostalgia coloring his tone. “Sold it when I signed on for this gig. Some things you have to trade for a cause.” The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken sacrifice and the weight of choices made in pursuit of duty.

The table fell into a comfortable silence, the kind that comes from shared experiences and unspoken camaraderie. The flickering light overhead cast shadows across the faces of the men gathered, emphasizing the moment. Ghost’s interest was suddenly piqued; he leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a low, steady murmur, almost conspiratorial. “Really? You had a bike, Cap’n?”

Soap turned in his seat, his posture shifting with newfound curiosity. “A Harley, aye? I always thought you looked like the type,” he remarked with a cheeky grin. “What happened to it? Got rid of it for a lady perhaps?”

Price shrugged, a hint of nonchalance on his face, but his eyes betrayed a deeper story. “Had to let it go. Part of the job, you know how it is. You give up a lot for this life,” he let out, his tone devoid of bitterness—just a calm acceptance of the sacrifices he’d made over the years.

Ghost hummed thoughtfully, his gaze glinting with mischief beneath his mask. He leaned back slightly, allowing the air to thicken with anticipation before continuing. “I might have a side gig if you’re interested,” he said. “Involves a bike. You could always come watch.”

Price’s eyebrow shot up, intrigued. “A side gig, eh? What sort of job are we talking about here?” His tone carried both suspicion and interest, a mix that hinted at the unpredictability of their lives.

Ghost leaned in closer, the tension in the air palpable as he let the moment hang before finally dropping his words like a stone in water. “Cages of death,” he stated simply, his voice low, but the weight of it was unmistakable.

The phrase landed at the table like a hammer strike, sending ripples through the group. Soap’s grin widened, his excitement morphing into uncontainable enthusiasm. He clapped his hands together, the sound echoing slightly in the dim room.

“Cages of death, hm?” he echoed, laughter bubbling up in his chest. “Sounds like a bloody laugh. Do you reckon I could stand in there with you, Ghost? Not a tremble in me.” His voice dripped with cocky confidence, betraying a thrill-seeker’s spirit.

Ghost’s lips curled beneath his balaclava, the gesture barely reaching his eyes but still a hint of amusement. “Bet, huh? We’ll see, Johnny,” he replied, the challenge evident in his tone. “Why don’t you come down tonight and show me what you’ve got?”

Price and Gaz exchanged a look that spoke volumes; an entire conversation passed between them without a word. “Those two are something else,” Price muttered under his breath, a mix of amusement and exasperation dancing in the corners of his lips.

Gaz shook his head, a grin creeping onto his face. “This should be interesting…” he remarked. The banter seemed to hang in the air, a promise of reckless adventure just waiting to ignite.

Soap’s eyes flickered over the screen of his phone, the message from a contact named “Simon, my L.T.💀” clear as day. The address to some rundown amusement joint, the same one he was standing outside of. He typed out a quick reply: “Where are you?”

Seconds later, the response came in: “Didn’t I just send you my location?”

Soap’s fingers hovered over the keys before he shot back, “Very funny, L.T. But I’m serious.”

The reply was instant: “I am too.”

Soap grinned, his thumb typing: “Simon.”

A pause. Then the phone pinged again: “If you’re at the entrance, follow the path in front, take a right by the food truck. There’s a spinning globe. I’m nearby.”

Soap raised an eyebrow. “Very vague.”

“You wanted my location. Work for it.”

Soap snorted. “How kind of you.”

“I know. See you soon, Johnny.”

He rolled his eyes with a hint of a smirk, muttering under his breath, “That muppet.” He clicked the side button of his phone, shutting it off before shoving it into his jacket pocket.

His boots crunched against the gravel as he walked, the cold evening air biting at his skin. He was glad he wore a jacket, even if it hung a bit loose at the waist. It was more comfortable that way. Didn’t mind the extra space—he wasn’t a man who skipped meals, after all. A good steak? No chance he’d pass it up. He chuckled to himself. Maybe Simon would be so generous. Or maybe not. That man had a way of keeping him on edge.

The food truck wasn’t hard to spot. Soap’s

eyes shifted from the truck to his phone. “Following the trail of clues you left me.”

The response was quick: “Good on you. We’ve got a Sherlock Holmes.”

Soap smirked, typing back: “Not that smart, L.T.”

“Oh? Says who?”

“Me.”

“Well, I second that. You don’t have to be Sherlock to be smart.”

“You’re just trying to get on my good side.”

“Am I not already?”

“No.”

“I’ll have to fix that then, won’t I?”

“Yes.”

“Hurry up. Can’t fix it if you’re not here.”

“Aye, L.T. See you.”

Soap tucked his phone away and jogged towards the spinning globe. He stood there for a moment, scanning the area, but saw no sign of Ghost. He was about to send another message when—THWACK—a hand slapped down on his shoulder.

The move nearly earned a quick jab to the ribs, but Soap froze, recognizing the skull balaclava before he could react.

“Damn,” Ghost muttered under his breath, “so much for seeing me.” His voice rumbled from behind the mask, “Thought you were clever. You think I’m gonna just stand in front of the globe like some tourist attraction?”

Soap’s brows furrowed as he took in the sight of his best mate. “That’s not the point, though.”

Ghost was the same as always—tall, broad-shouldered, and completely unreadable. He wore his signature skull helmet, the black balaclava covering the rest of his face. His brown eyes were focused, piercing as ever, but his posture was relaxed.

His jacket was a black-and-white Marlboro racing leather, the brand he liked to rep. The fit was tight on his frame, highlighting the muscles in his arms, but it wasn’t the jacket that caught Soap’s eye. His gaze wandered down, past the belt and black cargo pants—perfectly tailored to hug the hard lines of his legs—right down to the boots. Black, simple, but worn in just right.

A soft click of Ghost’s skull gloves snapped Soap out of his wandering thoughts, his gaze shooting back up to meet the man’s eyes. “Eyes up here, Johnny,” Ghost’s voice rumbled, tinged with a dry humor that Soap recognized all too well. There was a flush creeping up to his ears under the mask, but it didn’t matter. Ghost didn’t let that kind of thing slide.

“Sorry, L.T.” Soap said, rubbing the back of his neck as he felt the biting cold air wrap around him, amplifying his sense of vulnerability. His voice emerged rough and gravelly, a reflection of the chill that seeped into his bones.

Ghost, standing nearby, simply shook his head, a low chuckle escaping his lips as he caught Soap’s sheepish expression. “Can’t blame a man for looking,” he replied, an amused glint in his eyes as he took in their surroundings.

Soap couldn’t help but crack a grin, though he decided against voicing any witty retort. They weren’t here for lighthearted banter about appearances or attire; their focus was on a more pressing matter at hand.

Ghost leaned back slightly, the atmosphere around him shifting as if the very air was responding to his commanding presence. “Enough ogling,” he said firmly, his voice cutting through the tension. “We’ve got work to do. Let’s see if you’re not scared.”

Soap raised an eyebrow, a teasing smirk playing on his lips as he fixed his gaze on him. “Scared? Me?” he replied, stepping forward deliberately, the grin still lingering on his face like a challenge. “You’re the one hiding behind that skull mask, L.T.”

“Let’s find out, then,” Ghost announced, the atmosphere crackled with tension as he turned to face Soap, his spirited gaze fixated on him. The challenge was clear, hanging heavily in the air like a storm cloud ready to burst. With a mix of trepidation and determination in his eyes, Soap felt the weight of the moment.

He stood before the cage, a massive iron beast that loomed like a dark sentinel, a grim reminder of the danger awaiting inside. It wasn’t just a cage; it was a challenge. A test of everything he was. Time to face it. Time to prove himself. What happened next could make him—or break him.

The roar of the crowd hit him like a wave, electric and deafening. Soap took a steadying breath and stepped forward, walking into the cage. The steel walls pressed in on him, but he didn’t flinch. He stood tall in the center, a soldier ready for battle. Behind him, Ghost moved with his usual predatory grace, closing the door to the cage with a sharp metallic clang. Then he stalked toward his bike—already waiting inside, courtesy of the crew. The hum of the engine was a promise, a warning.

Ghost paused just behind him. His voice came low, almost a murmur, but sharp enough to cut through the noise. “You can still walk away, Johnny. Last chance.”

Soap didn’t even flinch. He shook his head, a grin curling at the edges of his lips. “Go on, L.T. Give me your worst.”

Ghost’s dark eyes softened for a fraction of a second, a glint of something like respect in them. “Always knew you were a fearless bastard.” The words were heavy with meaning, but before Soap could reply, Ghost swung a leg over his bike, settling in and adjusting his gloves with practiced precision. The rubber creaked as he tightened his grip, revving the engine until it roared to life.

Flames erupted from the outside of the cage, bursting into the air like a signal. The show had begun.

Ghost shot forward, the motorcycle tearing through the confined space with a savage grace. The way he maneuvered—sharp, calculated, precise—was hypnotic. He swerved around the cage like a predator circling its prey, the bike growling as it sliced through the air. With each pass, he edged closer, closing the distance by inches, then feet.

Soap felt it—the pressure of Ghost’s presence as he sped by. Those brown eyes, burning with intensity, locked onto him, gleaming with a raw, unfiltered passion. Ghost wasn’t just in his element; he thrived in it. The way he moved, the rush of adrenaline, the danger—it was in his blood, and Soap couldn’t deny it, even if he tried. It was magnetic. Mesmerizing.

And something inside Soap… stirred.

Then, without warning, Ghost signaled for him to raise his arms. Soap hesitated for a split second—confused, but obedient. He lifted his arms, the movement instinctive.

And that was when it hit him.

As Ghost circled closer, the tip of his gloved fingers brushed across Soap’s stomach. A fleeting touch, but it was enough to set off a ripple through his body. Soap’s breath hitched, eyes widening slightly in surprise. The contact was deliberate. A slow, almost teasing gesture.

Ghost didn’t let up. The next pass, he brushed across Soap’s chest. The heat from Ghost’s body was palpable now, the bike roaring beneath him as the distance between them grew even smaller. Soap’s pulse quickened. The crowd’s cheers grew louder, but all he could hear now was the hum of the engine and the quickening rhythm of his own heart.

Ghost’s gloves skimmed the lines of Soap’s belt next, grazing the skin just below his ribs, a trail of veins. The touch was lighter now, but it was charged—every movement deliberate, each touch inching closer to something Soap couldn’t quite put his finger on. His face flushed, and for the first time in a long while, he felt that familiar, unwelcome knot of embarrassment.

The crowd seemed to sense it, the air crackling with their energy. They loved it. The tension, the showmanship, the raw, unspoken dynamic between the two men.

It felt like the world had tilted, spinning just for them. Each brush of Ghost’s bike, each loop he made around Soap, left him breathless. Soap lost himself in the rhythm of it, his thoughts drifting far away—toward something he couldn’t quite grasp. What did all this mean? Was it just adrenaline? Was it just a game to Ghost, or was it something more? They’d never been just friends, had they? Soap’s pulse quickened, but he couldn’t make sense of it. The fleeting touch, the proximity—it was too much.

It was only when a pair of warm, gentle hands carefully grasped his wrists and slowly lowered his outstretched arms that he felt a sudden jolt of awareness wash over him, pulling him swiftly back to the present moment. The sensation of touch, both familiar and grounding, broke through the haze of his thoughts, jolting him from whatever world he had briefly inhabited.

“Thought I lost you there for a second,” Ghost said, his voice low and smooth, laced with that familiar, warm chuckle that made everything seem a bit lighter. He stood beside Soap, having dismounted from his bike, the powerful rumble of the engine now a distant echo in the background, replaced by the soft rustle of leaves and the subtle sounds of the world around them.

Soap blinked, momentarily disoriented, as he processed the whirlwind of events that had just unfolded. “You did,” he replied, his voice coming out steadier than he felt. His arms dropped to his sides, the tension slowly easing from his muscles.

It felt almost instinctual as he began to walk away from the confines of the cage, the metal bars behind them feeling both oppressive and distant. Ghost matched his pace, a reassuring presence by his side.

“Yeah? What was going on up there?” Ghost’s voice was casual, but there was something beneath the question, a hint of concern. His eyes searched Soap’s face as if waiting for an answer.

Soap hesitated, hands slipping into his pockets to give him a moment’s reprieve. “Us,” the word almost slipped out before he could stop it.

Ghost’s brow arched, a flicker of surprise crossing his features. “Us? What about us?” He unstrapped his gloves, the rip of the velcro punctuating his curiosity, as he tugged them off with a hint of impatience.

Soap turned toward him, a breath of air in his lungs. “Nothing,” he shrugged, trying to shake off the weight of the thought like it was just some passing fancy he could dismiss. “Just a stupid thought.”

Ghost didn’t buy it. The way Soap’s eyes flickered, like he was holding something back—Ghost wasn’t about to let him off the hook that easy. “Johnny,” his voice dropped an octave, a warning tone sliding in beneath the surface. “Speak to me. What’s on your mind?”

Soap hesitated the weight of Ghost’s stare pressing against him. He nodded toward the path ahead, taking the first step. “I will,” he promised, voice a little quieter. “But we need to talk somewhere more private.”

Ghost raised an eyebrow, a flicker of intrigue crossing his face at Soap's unexpected invitation. “Your place?” he asked, a hint of skepticism lacing his tone, but the curiosity in his eyes betrayed his interest.

Soap nodded emphatically, “Yeah,” he replied, his voice steady and confident. As he spoke, he casually brushed his fingers along the fabric of his jacket, a subtle gesture that misrepresented his eagerness to talk. With a purposeful stride, he turned on his heel and headed toward his truck, the sound of gravel crunching beneath his boots echoing in the quiet air.

Ghost fell into step behind him without a second thought. He’d been dropped off earlier anyway. No real reason to stick around at the station now. And besides, Soap was bothered by something, and Ghost was determined to figure out what it was. No more running from whatever this was between them.

When they rolled up to Soap’s flat, a heavy silence filled the truck. Soap killed the engine with a sharp twist of the key, but the tension still lingered between them. He grabbed his gear and hopped out, his face flushed, eyes distant—like he was wrestling with something that had been eating at him for a while now. Ghost knew that look too well.

With a heavy sense of tension hanging in the air, the two figures stepped into Soap's dimly lit apartment, their footsteps muted against the floor. Soap carefully turned the key in the lock, ensuring there was no trace of sound as the door clicked shut behind them. Ghost lingered near the entrance, his posture tense and alert, scanning the room for any signs of movement or danger. The atmosphere was thick with an unspoken urgency, and every small creak of the floor seemed amplified in the stillness that enveloped them.

He waited, watching Soap’s back as the man stood there, lost in his thoughts. Eventually, Soap turned to him, expression softening into something Ghost didn’t expect—vulnerable. It made his chest tighten. Soap’s voice came out quiet, almost unsure. “I just… can’t, Simon.”

Ghost’s gut tightened, a knot forming in his throat. He stepped forward, voice low but steady, trying to pull Soap back into the moment. “Can’t what, Johnny?” His gaze locked on the blue of Soap’s eyes—deep, familiar, a shade of the ocean that felt like home.

Soap ran a hand through his Mohawk, messing it up like he wasn’t even aware. He looked away for a second as if the words were harder to say than a bullet wound. Then, he exhaled sharply, finally forcing it out. “I love you.”

The words hung between them like a grenade on a hairpin, and Ghost was frozen. He hadn’t expected that—hell, didn’t want to expect it. Soap looked embarrassed, and vulnerable, like he’d just dropped a piece of his soul on the concrete.

Ghost couldn’t breathe for a second. He swallowed thickly, fighting to keep his voice steady. “Johnny—you don’t want to say that. I’m not… I’m not a good man. You’re better than that.” His words were low, heavy with something Ghost didn’t quite know how to handle. His mind screamed at him to pull away, to shut this down before things got too real, too messy. But his chest, his heart, was screaming a different story.

Soap shook his head, frustrated now, his voice raw with an emotion Ghost didn’t know he could carry. “I don’t care. I love you, Simon. I don’t want anyone else. Not like this. Not after everything we’ve been through.” His words were almost desperate, a plea that hit Ghost square in the chest, and it was the desperation that did it. It unraveled him.

Ghost’s hands twitched, almost of their own accord, before he reached for Soap, pulling him in. “Johnny…” His breath was shaky, his grip tight—more than tight, it felt like he was holding on for dear life. He shook his head in disbelief, eyes flickering with something torn between uncertainty and raw need. “I love you too, dammit.”

The words came out rough, and jagged, but they were true. They had to be. Holding him now, with Soap so close, so real, felt like the only thing that made sense in the chaos of their world. There were no clear answers, no neat little boxes to put this in. But this—this—felt natural, like breathing, like everything they’d fought for, bled for, led them to this.

Suddenly, the importance of his balaclava began to diminish, as the heat from each labored breath intensified against his skin. The suffocating fabric clung to his face, trapping warmth and making it increasingly difficult to breathe comfortably.

After a few gasping moments, he decided he could no longer bear it; he yanked the balaclava off, letting the cool air rush over his flushed complexion. As he caught his breath, he realized the extent of his scars—each one telling a story of its own, mapping a journey filled with trials and tribulations.

Pretty much every possible place a scar could exist on his body seemed to be marked, a testament to battles fought and survived. His hair was a shade of blond, fluffy from the balaclava covering it, mimicking Soap’s haircut somewhat.

Ghost’s nose brushed up to Soap’s, a soft gulp audible as his honey brown met Soap’s deep pretty blue, his lashes fluttering up to his. It made him damn near die of a stroke right then and there. His lips lingered open, scared to just kiss him outright but his teeth gritted, a low “fuck it,” leaving him as his calloused hands grabbed the backside of Soap’s head.

He pulled him in closer, the tender texture making contact with one another as their eyelids shut, trusting one another. Ghost locked his lips to Soap’s, hungrily tasting him like it would be his last time, it was greedy, sloppy. His hands moved closer together, combing through Soap’s Mohawk which earned a gentle moan from the Scot.

Soap’s own hands tugged at Ghost’s jacket, a quiet teasing chuckle parting their kiss as he did so. Not last very long because Soap shut him up by gliding his tongue through to Ghosts, crisscrossing and tangling with Ghosts in a fervor.

Ghost ripped apart the kiss, panting as a saliva trail dripped along Soap’s chin, one of his thumbs running across his face to wipe it away, “Didn’t know you had that in you,” he mumbled.

Soap frowned, his hands tugging once more at Ghost’s jacket, “Take it off,” he pleaded, sounding more whiny than he meant. It was the heat of the moment, and Ghost couldn’t put him at fault.

“Shit, alright..” Ghost hissed, giving himself some space as he unzipped the jacket and tossed it to the floor. A plain grey shirt tucked along his belt and pants, but from Soap’s look alone he threw that off too.

The uneven scars of different types that crossed over muscles and veins earned heavy gazing, “You have a lot..” Soap pointed out, and Ghost narrowed his eyes. Ready to put his clothes back on until Soap’s fingertips grazed over a few, “They look badass on you.”

Realization dawned on him, and the invisible scowl that had etched itself on his face faded away. “Is that a compliment?” Ghost asked his tone a mix of curiosity and caution. He tightened his grip around Soap's wrists, effectively halting his forward motion. The grip was firm yet not aggressive, Ghost’s eyes searched Soap's for clarity, wanting to decipher the meaning behind his words.

Soap's head bobbed rapidly in agreement, his eyes wide with enthusiasm. "Of course, Simon," he replied, his voice filled with enthusiasm and certainty.

Ghost hummed softly to himself, a low sound that filled the quiet room as he released his grip on Soap’s wrists. With a casual grace, he glided over to one of the wooden cabinets lining the wall.

He had planned to ask where he kept his hidden stash of cigarettes, but before he could utter a word, Soap broke the silence, clear and direct. “Top far corner of the third shelf.” With a faint smirk, Ghost nodded, grateful for the quick response, and turned his focus to the shelf that held the promise of smoke and solace.

“You know me too well, Johnny,” Ghost stated with a lopsided smile, a hint of mischief glinting in his eyes. He reached into one of the worn cardboard boxes stacked beside him, rummaging through the assortment of items until his fingers brushed against the familiar crinkle of a cigarette pack. Extracting a single cigarette, he brought it to his lips, the paper crinkling softly.

Soap, always quick to lend a hand, fished a small, well-used lighter from his pocket and flicked it open. The soft click of the lid echoed in the momentary silence. Ghost leaned in, the flame dancing just inches away, catching the edge of the cigarette and igniting it with a satisfying sizzle. As he took a slow drag, the smoke curled around him, “‘Want to be good for you, L.T.”

Ghost held the cigarette delicately between his pointer and middle finger, the ember glowing softly in the dim light. As he took a drag, a sudden thought flashed through his mind, compelling him to act. He turned to Johnny with an intense gaze, his voice low but commanding. "On your knees, Johnny. Now."

The unexpected demand sent a jolt through Soap, who instinctively tightened his jaw, a mixture of surprise and defiance flaring in his chest. Yet, despite the rush of emotions swirling within him, he found himself obeying, slowly sinking to his knees. The tension in the air thickened as Ghost watched him with unwavering focus, the smoke curling around them like a ghostly embrace.

“‘You said you wanted to be good for me, so prove it,” Ghost hummed. He took a long drag from his cigarette before he ground the still-lit ember against the cool, worn surface of the countertop closest to him. With a deliberate motion, he turned his full gaze towards Soap, his eyes glinting with amusement.

And Soap did the unthinkable. He slowly unclasped Ghost’s belt, pulling it out of the loops and tossing it to the side. He unzipped and unbuttoned the rest, his hands yanking down Ghost’s pants and boxers. Soap’s jaw fell, drool leaving his lips as he took in the sight of Ghost’s dick.

It was veiny, cut, a decent length that he could probably handle, and had some girth to it. That part had him slightly worried, but he could only imagine the reward for his service.

He moved closer on his knees, his lips coming into contact with the premature leaky tip, and Ghost grunted at the image he was given. One of his hands came to the nape of Soap’s neck, the other cupping his balls, “Careful. Careful, Johnny. Don’t go too fast so soon.”

Soap listened, and once he had his lips around Ghost he went at a slow pace. His tongue lapped over the curvature of his tip, prodding along the side and gently sucking with his lips. The parts that he couldn’t reach quite yet with his mouth were gently grasped by his hands, placing soft pressure as he rubbed the sensitive skin up and down, enough friction to create a sheen of lather.

Soap batted his pretty blue eyes up to him, his tongue gliding in a teasing motion, popping the head of Ghost’s dick in and out. The teasing became too hard for Ghost to resist, he wanted more, the sin of greed returning as he used his hand to force Soap’s head further. A short amount of choking and gagging sounds escaped him, peeking back up to Ghost once more.

“Mean of me, I know. But you can take it. Just let me in,” Ghost sighed, cooing smooth comments to the Scot who felt butterflies flying up his stomach and core.

And with every inch swallowed was a gentle thrust of his hips, getting Soap nice and slowly prepared for more with each second. Soap’s hands trembled along the base, and that sudden teary-eyed look made his dick throb, he knew it was a nasty thing to get off on, but it couldn’t be helped.

Soap stroked his dick and bobbed his head at a more moderate pace, that rapid warmth of an orgasm shooting through him as white strings spurted out and into Soap’s mouth, “Fuck, fuck… take it Johnny,” Ghost exasperated, rocking his hips with more meaningful thrusts. Coming down from a high that came so easily when Soap started picking it up.

Soap’s mouth didn’t leave until he collected every last drop, milking it out of Ghost and swallowing it down. He opened up his jaw to show what a good job he did, and Ghost pressed a kiss to his forehead, “Good boy, such a good boy.”

The outline of Soap’s ears flushed a deep shade of crimson, evidence of his dirty thoughts. Ghost approached, extending a hand to help Soap rise from the ground. Once Soap was on his feet, Ghost gently cupped his cheeks in his strong hands, tilting Soap’s face upward to meet his steady gaze. “Now, I’ll take care of you, yeah?” he questioned, his voice low and reassuring, ensuring that Soap felt the warmth of his sincerity and support.

Soap nodded eagerly, “Aye, please do,” a look of gratitude in his eyes as he felt Simon's comforting touch. The gentle pressure of Simon's hand against his back was a welcome relief, slowly easing the remnants of the choking and gagging fit that had overwhelmed him moments before. As Simon rubbed soothing circles, Soap could sense the prickling tears that had threatened to spill over in his moment of distress.

As they entered the bedroom, Ghost gestured for Soap to settle onto the bed, the quilted comforter inviting against the backdrop of the evening’s dim light.

Soap plopped down, his clothing quickly shedding to form a haphazard pile beside him. Each piece seemed to carry the remnants of the day, crumpled and slightly worn, with the fabric softly rustling as they fell.

Ghost couldn’t help but admire Soap’s unruly Mohawk, which stood defiantly in all directions as if it had its own life. Despite—or perhaps because of—the chaos, there was something undeniably appealing about it. The way it reflected Soap's carefree spirit brought a playful smile to Ghost's lips.

Ghost slowly crawled up to Soap, situating himself in between his legs as he looks at the way Soap’s dick was dribbling milky ropes already, “Hm, haven’t even actually touched you yet,” Ghost gave another tease, only to be met with a punch to his arm.

“Simon,” Soap tugged his lips into a frown, his pretty blue eyes widening in shock as watched Ghost lick and spit on his fingers thoroughly, strands of saliva dripping down his arm as his hand centered itself near Soap’s hole.

His fingertip circled along the opening, carefully slotting in a finger before adding another, “Yeah?” Ghost huffed, his eyes focused on the way Soap clenched from the burning sensation. He gently moved his fingers upright with flicks and circular movements, Soap beginning to slouch into the headboard.

“Don’t want your fingers, I want you,” Soap gritted, completely unconcerned about his disheveled appearance. With a desperate intensity, he reached out, grasping Ghost’s hand and forcefully pulling it away from the distance that separated them. His brow furrowed in frustration, a tight line etched across his forehead as he focused on closing that gap, craving the intimacy that had been just out of reach for far too long.

Ghost paused, but he didn’t argue, he gave himself a few good tugs and lined himself up with Soap’s ass, “Alright.. but don’t blame me, love.” And that burning sensation grew like a fire inside, Ghost’s hands pressed Soap’s hips, leaving crescent markings. Each press deeper had a moan from Soap, it hurt no doubt, but he settled quickly. The feeling of his plushy walls relaxing gave away that he was almost good to start moving.

Ghost peppered a few kisses of encouragement along his shoulders, feeling Soap’s legs tuck up and along his hips was a sign for him to continue. His hands moved up to his sides, he moved forward and had Soap folded into him, his stomach chub pancaking inwards.

Soap sighed and cooed softly, fully speared on Ghost’s dick, and with that as full encouragement Ghost softly and carefully tested the waters. Each click of his hips meeting Soap’s thighs didn’t fall deaf on his ears, he kept him still, and the way his balls slapped against Soap’s ass just right almost made him cum alone.

Ghost maneuvered himself to where his dick could perch upright inside of Soap, and hit all those gooey spots. The milky ring collected at the base of his cock as he gathered himself together and began pounding a bit further into Soap.

“Si’.. Si’” Soap pathetically moaned, his hands gripping the sheets of his bed, throwing his head back, and arching his back to the air. His hips moved around desperately, his blue irises lulling back from the pleasure his body was taking in.

Ghost groaned and grunted, his desires taking over entirely as his nails clawed into Soap’s sides, knuckles turning white. The bed creaked as he began fucking Soap stupid, his core tightening and heating up with the pace. It felt so good, Soap was pulsating at every curved motion, beaded sweat trailing along his forehead.

And Ghost kept stuffing his cock into Soap without giving him a break, it was just addicting, overstimulating in the best kind of ways. The mere sight alone had Ghost in shambles, “Fuckin’ hell,” he rasped, his voice lowering significantly from the overwhelming feelings alone.

He just couldn't stop sinking back to Soap, his cock twitching and his balls full, ready to release everything he had into him when the moment was right. The slick of his precum was hardly noticeable with the arousal fluids drenching his thighs and dick.

“Gonna cum, Si’..” Soap babbled out repeatedly, muffled cries leaving him, the air punched from his lungs as Ghost gave strong and firm final humps, grinding just right into his ass as the two released everything they had. Warmth filling Soap up in ways he couldn’t began to believe, and Ghost’s cum just kept pouring out.

It dripped out in a messy manner when he slowly slid out his cock, the milky strings all over the two and the bed, “Fuck, did so well for me, Johnny,” he praised with utter stardom. If his pupils weren’t originally hearts, fuck by god were they now.

Ghost could only laugh at the sight, he knew the mess he’d have to take care of tomorrow morning, but for now he’d cuddle with his newfound boyfriend.

If this wasn’t love, he didn’t know what was.

[vox-anglosphere]

Oban is the end of the rail line but your gateway to the Inner Hebrides

[scotianostra]

Afew more pics from my wee trip over to Anstruther this week.

[officiallordvetinari]

Below are 10 Wikipedia featured articles. Links and descriptions are below the cut.

The American paddlefish (Polyodon spathula), also known as a Mississippi paddlefish, spoon-billed cat, or spoonbill, is a species of ray-finned fish. It is the last living species of paddlefish (Polyodontidae). This family is most closely related to the sturgeons; together they make up the order Acipenseriformes, which are one of the most primitive living groups of ray-finned fish. Fossil records of other paddlefish species date back 125 million years to the Early Cretaceous, with records of Polyodon extending back 65 million years to the early Paleocene. The American paddlefish is a smooth-skinned freshwater fish with an almost entirely cartilaginous skeleton and a paddle-shaped rostrum (snout), which extends nearly one-third its body length. It has been referred to as a freshwater shark because of its heterocercal tail or caudal fin resembling that of sharks, though it is not closely related. The American paddlefish is a highly derived fish because it has evolved specialised adaptations such as filter feeding. Its rostrum and cranium are covered with tens of thousands of sensory receptors for locating swarms of zooplankton, its primary food source.

The fauna of Scotland is generally typical of the northwest European part of the Palearctic realm, although several of the country's larger mammals were hunted to extinction in historic times and human activity has also led to various species of wildlife being introduced. Scotland's diverse temperate environments support 62 species of wild mammals, including a population of wild cats, important numbers of grey and harbour seals and the most northerly colony of bottlenose dolphins in the world. Many populations of moorland birds, including the black and red grouse, live here, and the country has internationally significant nesting grounds for seabirds such as the northern gannet. The Scottish crossbill is the only endemic vertebrate species in the UK. Scotland's seas are among the most biologically productive in the world; it is estimated that the total number of Scottish marine species exceeds 40,000. The Darwin Mounds are an important area of deep sea cold water coral reefs discovered in 1998. Only six amphibians and four land reptiles are native to Scotland, but many species of invertebrates live there that are otherwise rare in the United Kingdom.

Several attempts at a Franco-Mongol alliance against the Islamic caliphates, their common enemy, were made by various leaders among the Frankish Crusaders and the Mongol Empire in the 13th century. Such an alliance might have seemed an obvious choice: the Mongols were already sympathetic to Christianity, given the presence of many influential Nestorian Christians in the Mongol court. The Franks—Western Europeans, and those in the Levantine Crusader states—were open to the idea of support from the East, in part owing to the long-running legend of the mythical Prester John, an Eastern king in an Eastern kingdom who many believed would one day come to the assistance of the Crusaders in the Holy Land. The Franks and Mongols also shared a common enemy in the Muslims. However, despite many messages, gifts, and emissaries over the course of several decades, the often-proposed alliance never came to fruition.

The Free State of Galveston (sometimes referred to as the Republic of Galveston Island) was a satirical name given to the coastal city of Galveston in the U.S. state of Texas during the early-to-mid-20th century. Today, the term is sometimes used to describe the culture and history of that era. During the Roaring Twenties, Galveston Island emerged as a popular resort town, attracting celebrities from around the country. Gambling, illegal liquor, and other vice-oriented businesses were a major part of tourism. The "Free State" moniker embodied a belief held by many locals that Galveston was beyond what they perceived were repressive mores and laws of Texas and the United States. In one of the more famous examples of this, a state committee, investigating gambling at the fabled Balinese Room, was told by the local sheriff that he had not raided the establishment because it was a "private club" and because he was not a "member".

The Kylfings (Old Norse Kylfingar; Estonian Kalevid; Hungarian Kölpények; Old East Slavic Колбяги, Kolbiagi; Byzantine Greek Κουλπίγγοι, Koulpingoi; Arabic al-Kilabiyya) were a people of uncertain origin active in Northern Europe during the Viking Age, roughly from the late ninth century to the early twelfth century. They could be found in areas of Lapland, Russia, and the Byzantine Empire that were frequented by Scandinavian traders, raiders and mercenaries. Scholars differ on whether the Kylfings were ethnically Finnic or Norse. Also disputed is their geographic origin, with Denmark, Sweden and the Eastern Baltic all put forward as candidates. Whether the name Kylfing denotes a particular tribal, socio-political, or economic grouping is also a matter of much debate.

Mosasaurus (/ˌmoʊzəˈsɔːrəs/; "lizard of the Meuse River") is the type genus (defining example) of the mosasaurs, an extinct group of aquatic squamate reptiles. It lived from about 82 to 66 million years ago during the Campanian and Maastrichtian stages of the Late Cretaceous. The genus was one of the first Mesozoic marine reptiles known to science—the first fossils of Mosasaurus were found as skulls in a chalk quarry near the Dutch city of Maastricht in the late 18th century, and were initially thought to be crocodiles or whales. One skull discovered around 1780 was famously nicknamed the "great animal of Maastricht". In 1808, naturalist Georges Cuvier concluded that it belonged to a giant marine lizard with similarities to monitor lizards but otherwise unlike any known living animal. This concept was revolutionary at the time and helped support the then-developing ideas of extinction.

Several organisms are capable of rolling locomotion. However, true wheels and propellers—despite their utility in human vehicles—do not play a significant role in the movement of living things (with the exception of certain flagella, which work like corkscrews). Biologists have offered several explanations for the apparent absence of biological wheels, and wheeled creatures have appeared often in speculative fiction.

The existence of a slate industry in Wales is attested since the Roman period, when slate was used to roof the fort at Segontium, now Caernarfon. The slate industry grew slowly until the early 18th century, then rapidly during the Industrial Revolution in Wales until the late 19th century, at which time the most important slate producing areas were in northwest Wales. These sites included the Penrhyn Quarry near Bethesda, the Dinorwic Quarry near Llanberis, the Nantlle Valley quarries, and Blaenau Ffestiniog, where the slate was mined rather than quarried. Penrhyn and Dinorwig were the two largest slate quarries in the world, and the Oakeley mine at Blaenau Ffestiniog was the largest slate mine in the world.

The social history of viruses describes the influence of viruses and viral infections on human history. Epidemics caused by viruses began when human behaviour changed during the Neolithic period, around 12,000 years ago, when humans developed more densely populated agricultural communities. This allowed viruses to spread rapidly and subsequently to become endemic. Viruses of plants and livestock also increased, and as humans became dependent on agriculture and farming, diseases such as potyviruses of potatoes and rinderpest of cattle had devastating consequences.

The High Middle Ages of Scotland encompass Scotland in the era between the death of Domnall II in 900 AD and the death of King Alexander III in 1286, which was an indirect cause of the Wars of Scottish Independence. At the close of the ninth century, various competing kingdoms occupied the territory of modern Scotland. Scandinavian influence was dominant in the northern and western islands, Brythonic culture in the southwest, the Anglo-Saxon or English Kingdom of Northumbria in the southeast and the Pictish and Gaelic Kingdom of Alba in the east, north of the River Forth. By the tenth and eleventh centuries, northern Great Britain was increasingly dominated by Gaelic culture, and by the Gaelic regal lordship of Alba, known in Latin as either Albania or Scotia, and in English as "Scotland".

[croakingravenstudio]

Harbour sketches.

Boats moored in Oban harbour, Scotland.

Pencil on drawing paper.

Two, tiny thumbnail sketches of the reference photo for the composition and values. Although I work from memory without any reference images in front of me, sketching helps me absorb the information I want to convey.

[theunderestimator-2]

"See you later, Joe…": On this day, Dec. 30th, 2002, the Punk Rock Warlord Joe Strummer’s funeral was held in private at West London Crematorium where he was cremated (from a Los Angeles Times clipping dated January 1, 2003).

The funeral was held on a dark and grey Monday with rain belting down in bucketfuls and the service was attended by his widow Lucinda and two daughters, the rest of the Clash, Mick Jones, Paul Simonon and Topper Headon, Chrissie Hynde and Jeannette Lee (formerly of PIL, then co-managing director of Rough Trade), Jim Jarmusch, Bob Gruen, Rat Scabies, Pearl Harbour, Joe Ely, Don Letts, the Clash road manager Johnny Greene, some more close friends and relatives, according to Chris Salewicz, who wrote 'Redemption Song: The Definitive Biography of Joe Strummer'.

He remembers that he heard about Joe’s death after Don Letts called him and when he called up Mick Jones, who in between sobs was his usual funny self, he told him

"… how glad he was he’d played with Joe at the benefit for the Fire Brigades Union five weeks before. -‘I don’t even know what religion he was,’ Mick said. -‘Some kind of Scottish low-church Presbyterian, I imagine,’ I suggested. -‘Church of Beer, probably,’ laughed Mick, tearfully. "…Joe’s coffin slowly comes in, held aloft by half a dozen pallbearers. It is placed down at the far end of the chapel. Keith Allen, the actor and comedian, steps forward and positions a cowboy hat on top of it. There’s a big sticker on the nearest end: ‘Question Authority’, it reads, then in smaller letters: ‘Ask Me Anything’. Next to it is a smaller sticker: ‘Vinyl Rules’. On the sides of the coffin are more messages: ‘Get In, Hold On, Sit Down, Shut Up’ and ‘Musicians Can’t Dance’. Around the end wall of the chapel are flags of all nations. More people are ushered in, like the kids Joe would make sure got through the stage-door at Clash gigs, until the place is crammed. …‘Wandering Star’ [by Lee Marvin] begins to play. ‘See you later, Joe,’ someone says. Yeah, see you later, Joe…" (from Chris Salewicz's 'Redemption Song: The Definitive Biography of Joe Strummer'.)

Soundtrack of the day: ‘Wandering Star’ - Lee Marvin (1969) "When I get to heaven, tie me to a tree/ Or I'll begin to roam, and soon you know where I will be/ I was born under a wandrin' star/ A wandrin' wandrin' star…"

A detailed rundown of Joe's funeral from Chris Salewicz's book: https://www.litres.ru/book/chris-salewicz/redemption-song-the-definitive-biography-of-joe-strummer-39768017/chitat-onlayn/