#setthethamesonfire

[kissmyhandcallmedarling]

what if howard never came back..."i've already got a shallow mate who dresses like a futuristic prostitute." --------------------------------------------------

[i made this super quickly, so ik the qualitity is shit :) also the transitions were meant to look like glitches but it kinda didn't work]

[h0tdogwater]

pspspspps i have crappy noel sketches pspsspspsps

[jentheodora]

Today I'm Dickie (played by Noel Fielding) from "Set The Thames on Fire " ! 😂😂😂 Idk why but it's always so much fun becoming Noel's Characters ! @noel_fielding . @jentheodora on insta . . . #jentheodora #jentheogoreable #makeuplove #goth #punkmakeup #themightyboosh #mightyboosh #boosh #noelfielding #julianbarrat #setthethamesonfire #dickie #charactermakeup #costume #makeupmobb #makeupgeek #instagoth #gothicmakeup #creepymakeup #weirdo #strange #creep #clown #clubkids #photo #artofinstagram #booshlr #makeupofinstagram #artoftumblr #makeupoftumblr (at Nanaimo, British Columbia)

[blackaproncraft]

Working on my Dickie sketch (my January #bujo spreads are all #SettheThamesonFire themed) while my husband plays #DontStarve.

I like to make note of these moments, in case of darker times when I might momentarily forget how good my life is.

#wip #handsarehardtodraw #NoelFielding #gamer #geek #videogames #bulletjournal #truelove https://www.instagram.com/p/BrvxDRKFfTN/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=1pqqwhhgdbv6o

[themidnightdeer]

..Throwback to last weeks premier of Set The Thames On Fire - a film directed by my good friend Ben Charles Edwards. I wore one of the statement Amethyst Necklaces... And I've decided I have to keep it 💜 #setthethamesonfire #britishfilm #noelfielding #sadiefrost #crystal #crystalnecklace #midnightdeer #themidnightdeer #statementnecklace #tbt #thursday (at London, United Kingdom)

[oscaralexander]

That's a wrap! 3 weeks of filming #SetTheThamesOnFire done! Time for bed! Been such a great time! Missing all of you already!

[h0tdogwater]

DICKIE !!!

[kissmyhandcallmedarling]

on the far side of the moon.

notes:

mmkay, ik theres literally only like three people on tumblr who have seen set the thames on fire, but i really wanted to write this fic, so i did it anyway, even if no one sees it

loosely based on the dickie/vince theory by @towan-white (you should definitely go check it out if you haven't - gut-wrenching!)

anyhow, i may make this a short (angsty) series, so strap yourselves in (if you want)

tw: drug use, prostitution, mentions of suicide

i also embedded the soundtrack from sttof, for added ambiance

"but what does it matter if the whole world sinks if you've lost your friend."

“Welcome to your London,”

Insanity was a social construct. 

“Through hell and high water, working together for a happier city.”

Segregation. 

Insanity was a safety net for the ordinary. Reassure themselves that they were the superiors, by declaring that a madman, one whom allowed his mind to dwindle away, was inferior; in need of repair. Broken. But really it was there to make them feel better about their lack of individualism. For the correlation between insanity and creativity is no coincidence.

“A calm citizen, is a happy London.”

But what happens, when there is nothing left but insanity? Nothing to balance the ship. Nothing to secure the loose canons in place. Nothing to herd the crew onto the deck. No bilge pump, nor buckets to remove water. 

What happens then? 

The ship sinks. 

“Because happiness, is going down with the ship.”

***

The amphetamines burned his nostrils. He coughed harshly, fingers gripping the floor as he regained stability. Not yet satisfied, the man got to his feet, and scrounged through a bowl of brightly coloured pills, knocking a few back with a swig of cognac. He could feel the drugs making their way through his bloodstream. He could see it before his very eyes. He watched as his body contorted, allowing the sensation to pique every crevice. 

Dickie took a deep breath. He steadied himself, and stood up, making his way over to the mirror. The glass was covered in a thin layer of grime, splatters of fresh bodily fluids dripped from its surface. He was yet to clean up from his most recent client - it was well worth the effort, for the pretty penny he had gained. But there was no time to dwell on his prospects, for his master expected to be escorted to that fucking cocktail party within the next half hour, and so he resumed getting ready. Dickie touched up his makeup, drawing on his uneven cupid’s bow with a crappy lipstick. He combed through the grease that coagulated on his scalp, pulling his hair into two small bunches. He adjusted the garters which strained against his muscular quadriceps, suspending his stockings. He had footballer’s legs; athletically thin, yet stocky toward the thigh. Lastly, Dickie tightened his corset. He tugged the strings taught, until his waist synched and his chest impelled upward, giving him the illusion of visible cleavage. DIY tits were his favourite party trick. With a final scan of his appearance, Dickie peeled his gaze from his reflection and proceeded to leave his den. 

The air was dank, and wet. Thick with pain, as though the tears cried by the drowned had condensed into the very air particles breathed by those lucky enough to still be breathing. Pink neon lights flickered in tune with a poor soul, hyperventilating in a heap on the group. A curdling scream echoed through the underground, the pitch scattered and unnatural. But none of it phased Dickie. It had been like that ever since the river rose. 

How long had it been? 

He failed to recall.

Time seemed to collapse on itself. Hours sped past like mere moments, yet a night alone passed in a manner of years. So much so that soon Dickie found himself on the arm of the Impresario, the most powerful man in all of London. His wealth was inherited, and somehow, the rising of the river allowed said man to rise in power, and social rank. 

They say he’s got more money than God.

“Dickie, dear?” The man crooned. “Why do you make me attend these parties? You know I hate these fucking people.”

Dickie gripped his masters arm, ushering him through the grand revolving door. Water seeped in through the gaps as always. They entered the party - an orchestral waltz variation played over the grammar phones, while women dressed in slutty leather bodysuits danced sensually throughout the room. Guests mingled in small clusters, alcohol in hand, making rowdy fools of themselves. It was only ten past nine, and yet a good majority of the room was already pissed. 

“Well, I thought, Impresario, that socialising may very well be good for you. Cheer you up maybe.”

“Cheer me up my arse!” He spat. “Last time you brought me to one of these functions - it was that pink-haired whore, Pop Pop or whatever she calls herself’s afterparty - I was almost assassinated! Bah!”

Dickie suppressed a gulp. “There’ll be little girls here. New, pretty girls for you to take home and look after. Perhaps you can strike up a deal with them, get them to work for you?”

The Impresario grumbled a reply, agreeing in annoyance. 

“See? There’s always something to look forward to. I told-“

“Fuck off and fetch me a drink, Dickie.”

“Of course, Impresario.”

Oh yes. 

Happiness had indeed gone down with the ship. For all.

Some were just better at hiding it. Some were so consumed by memories of the past, a past that they would never regain, that they sacrificed their souls to the river. Dug themselves a watery grave. 

For no one truly adapted to the change, no matter how much they told themselves otherwise. Dickie knew he hadn’t. He knew full-well his life had been thrown off course when first flood struck London. But he was already fucked, for his life was a shambles before the banks of the Thames flooded. The water was just an excuse. Drugs and addiction had overridden his soul long before the river overran the streets. He’d forgotten everything. 

They called him insane. But really, he’d never felt shallower. 

For the brink of insanity resided somewhere deep within him: fractured images of a life he couldn’t quite remember. He just couldn’t locate it.

“Dickie, you bloody bastard, where is my drink?!” 

“Coming, Impresario. You need not stress!” Dickie hastily knocked back a shot of spirits unknown to him, and poured a goblet of wine for his master. 

This was all he knew. Dickie had two purposes; prostitution, and waiting on his master. He knew he had been someone else once, but dwelling on what what was or what could have been did no good. Right now, in this universe, he was Dickie and these were his purposes. 

For the past is another land.

***

The Impresario had insisted on walking himself home that evening, so Dickie was free to scrounge about the party in hopes of landing his clutch on a nice, pretty rich one. After all the time he’d spent in the “business”, he’d built up a bit of a name and reputation for himself. Sure, there were the other supreme whores about London’s underworld; Little Cassie, The Triangle Man to name a few. Oh, and one could not go without mentioning the Ripper. Named after the unidentified killer who stalked London’s streets during the 19th century, the Ripper was the most notorious among them, with many clients reportedly emerging in the most ghastly of physical states. The Ripper was also a fine choice for those wishing to end their life with a combination of pleasure and pain; in simpler terms, to be fucked to death. 

But when it came to creativity, Dickie was certainly up there with the best. He’d certainly rank within the uppermost echelon of prozzies in new London. The work wasn’t all that bad either; he got to dress up hyper-feminine, and confuse the tits off people with his androgyny. And he’d just spotted his next victim.

“Hey there, sweet cheeks!” Dickie pranced to a dark corner of the room where he spied a tall gentleman. He hitched his skirt up a little higher, so to entrap his prey. He chewed his gum playfully, and attempted to heighten the pitch of his voice. “You look lonely, over here, all by your… lonesome…” Dickie remained in the shadows, but moved closer to the man, leaning forward slightly, to display his “assets”. “I can fix that, you know. Come back with me to my den, and I’ll teach you a thing or two.”

The man remained silent; distant, disconnected. Perhaps what he needed, was a little bit of confusing. 

“They call me Dickie,” he lowered his voice to its natural pitch, twirling a pigtail of hair around his finger. “I’ll let you figure that one out for yourself.” He trailed a wayward hand down to his lower region. “Allow my appearance fool you all you like, darling. I fool them all. ‘Is it a man, is it a woman, oh I’m not sure if I mind?’”

Bingo. The gentleman’s eyes flickered to meet Dickie’s. He had him hooked. Now all he needed to do was reel him in. But the unnamed man spoke before Dickie could let another flirtatious innuendo slip from his pouty lips. 

“Have we met before?”

What? Of course not! Dickie had never seen this man in his life. But he decided he was more likely to prosper if he played along. “I dunno, hot stuff. Have we met before?”

“It’s just… you remind me so much of someone. Someone I used to know. Someone whom I abandoned. I never had the chance to apologise, before…”

Oh christ. He was the philosophical type. Probably the type to burst into tears amid jerking off. But Dickie was in too deep to pull out now. Besides, it looked as though this man had money, judging by his appearance, so he kept his eyes on the prize.  

“Was this person a woman? A man?”

“Bit of a confuser, kinda like you actually.”

“Then let me tantalise you. Live out your greatest fantasies. I can be anyone you want me to be. I can be that person, if you like. All you have to do, is say yes.” Dickie held eye contact with the gentleman and bit his lip, doing all in his power to seduce this mere simpleton. 

“I’ve never cared much for prostitutes. Let alone the outlandish, futuristic types. Feels wrong anyway. To betray him like that.”

“Ah ha! So it is a he! No matter, sir. I can rid the dress as quickly as I can don it! Tell me, what was this gieser like in bed? Submissive? Dominant?”

“I dunno.” 

“Pardon?”

“Never slept with him. Had too much respect for him.”

“Did you love him?”

“…yeah. He loved me too… He needed me. And I left him.” 

Dickie rolled his eyes. What a fucking simp. This was going nowhere and there were only so many hours in the night. He turned his back and began to walk away, but the man lunged forward and clutched his wrist. 

“How much for the night?”

Dickie’s face contorted into a sickly-sweet smile. “Call it 70 quid.”

The man retrieved his wallet, handing over the cash. Dickie pocketed the money, slipping it down his front. “Now, that payment’s been made, allow me to assess you. Lift up your shirt. Come on, show me your little belly button.”

“Ah, no, I don’t think so. Not here.”

“Fucking prude. Come on then. I’ll take you back to my den. I haven’t got all day, hurry up!” Dickie grabbed the man by his shoulder, and looped his arm through his, leading the way. 

“Oi, Dickie!” A voice hollered somewhere off from the distance.

“Not now, Donny. I’ve got a client!” 

Soon the pair found themselves in the stinking labyrinth that was the old underground. 

“Just in here, thanks.” Dickie shoved his client into a small room, slamming the door behind him. “What do you think of my den? Fucking fantastic!!”

The man remained silent. 

“Oh, you’re a shy little dove, aren’t you? Tell me, what’s your name?

He didn’t answer.

“Speak! For christ’s sake! Speak you bloody wanker!” 

He mumbled a name, though Dickie could not make it out. He decided on a softer approach this time, taking a deep breath as he altered his persona. “I’m sorry, darling. I didn’t quite catch that,” he cooed. “Could you repeat your name for me please?”

“Howard. Howard Moon.”

And it happened. 

As if those two words together were the final piece of the puzzle, his memory was triggered. As if the words were a lost key to unlock the deepest, most far-away, most forgotten parts of his mind. It was as though he was watching a film in ultra HD, running at a thousand miles an hour. It all returned to him. All those years ago. But out of the flurry of forgotten youth, one name surfaced to the forefront of his memory. 

“Vince.”

“Pardon me, Dickie?”

Dickie met Howard’s gaze, and everything made sense. “Vince.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

[kissmyhandcallmedarling]

alone.

dickie x gn!reader

notes:

this is just a little bit of fluffy shit with my boy dickie

not overly happy with how it turned out but yk, imma post it anyway

i'm literally so obsessed with him atm, like he's just a broken little tragedy :(

==============================================

It was a strange feeling. Being surrounded by so many people; yet feeling more alone than ever. Everyone was in the same boat, and everyone found a different way to distract themselves from the lack of community and companionship in their lives. Attending flamboyant soireés in the evenings... splurging their savings of which they had no longer a use for, by day... visiting brothels, by night... sending themselves into a whirlpool of alcoholism, and drug addiction, by early hours of the morn... all to cover up the superficiality of their lives.

Yes. London had become a perfunctory autocracy. A hierachial hell of trivial pursuits; selfishness, nor greed, nor lust had no implications - but happiness came with no sense of reward nor joy. Emotions and feelings merged into one. Sin and virtue were one and the same, judged purely by the eye of the beholder.

Well... these were your perceptions, perceptions that you full and truly believed... all before you met him.

***

"Fucking whore."

A passer-by muttered under his breath, having just displaced a puddle with his boot, landing yourself on the receiving end of an unpleasant mix of stale water, dirt, and piss. You wiped your face - more out of impulse than anything, knowing full well your clothing was already drenched from the downpour. It was crazy; rain hurled down in buckets, thunder pounded, as though cursing mother earth for her infidelity. You were so cold. You held your cigarette between your teeth to free up your hands, wrapping your leather jacket a little tighter around your shivering body. Despite being soaked through, your tights were ripped and holey, offering little in the way of warmth and protection.

"Rough night?" A voice startled you, slicing through your little bubble of self-absorption. It sounded like a male's voice. The streets were not safe for a young thing such as yourself; having found yourself in trouble before, you kept your head down, avoiding meeting their gaze.

"Leave me alone."

"I'm not gonna hurt you."

This was a common response, usually nothing but a lie in an attempt to get under your skin... or in this case... your skirt. However, there was something in his tone of voice... something sincere. Wrapping your arms tighter around yourself, you let your eyes rest upon the figure. The man looked nothing like you'd imagined, judging by his voice alone. He was a little taller than yourself, standing around what you'd estimate to be 5ft 11, dressed in a white babydoll dress, with flutter sleeves, and a hemline that barely covered his crotch. Like yours, his stockings were ripped and shabby.

"Hey. I told you I'm not going to hurt you. Well... unless you pay me." The character let out a hearty yet malevolent cackle, unmatching his calm demure of the past few moments. "Then I can mess you up real bad!" His eyes widened and he stuck his tongue out, waggling it between his lips like a snake.

Having been unsuccessful in fishing a word out of you, unsatified by your ignorance, the stranger adapted to a more civil approach, throwing out a compliment.

"I love that jacket. Fucking genius! I used to own heaps of those when I was younger. Back in the day. Bloody little wanker I was." He crouched down beside you and held a hand out. "Dickie."

You took his hand and shook it in mutual greeting. Even through the layer of latex that encased his hand in a disposable glove, you could feel the warmth of his palm against yours. It occurred to you, that this was the first act of compassion anyone had relayed to you in a long time.

"Dickie." You affirmed. "Y/n."

There was a silence between you, a moment during which you fathomed the extent of your isolation. Of the world's isolation... It made you so very... so very... sad. To think about what the world had become... What you had become... A mere beggar, reduced to selling your body to the filth that inhabited the city - if only to scrape together a few pennies.

You could feel the tears building up, threatening to spill out, and so you bit your lip in an attempt to resist. But your efforts were most certainly in vain, as you began to weep, little sobs escaping your lips.

"Hey... shhh. Shhhh, it's okay... you're okay." Dickie placed a hand on your shoulder, and, much to your surprise, pressed a gentle kiss to your cheek. "Shhh. Dickie's here. You're alright, darling."

Five years ago, you would never have allowed some washed up, (most likely) sex worker come heroin-addict you'd just met, to comfort you during a breakdown... but five years ago you also would've never imagined the cursed waters of the Thames to rise as they did, wiping out a good sixty percent of the population. It's all about context, so they say. You were alone, and in what had been the last five minutes, you'd received more kindness... no... common decency, than you had since you lost everything.

These thoughts didn't help ease your emotions, but rather added fuel to the fire, your breathing uneasy as your eyes secreted more salty tears.

"I'm sorry." You managed to choke out.

"Don't fucking apologise," he gently rubbed your back in a circular motion. "No one should have to apologise for being human - a right rarity these days, I must say."

And it was in that very statement - not by his sullen expression nor derelict appearance, but by the manner in which his voice faltered slightly when articulating his words - that you could tell that he too had been treated like shit... a scapegoat for the sick acts of inhumane individuals... used... hurt... then cast aside.

You felt for him, as he felt for you. An unspoken understanding of the other... empathy as its greatest. That too was a rarity at best.

The ability to share the feelings of another.

You scooted closer to him, easing your head to rest on his lace-embellished shoulder. His hand gripped your arm as you allowed your knees to collapse against his. Dickie placed a soft kiss on your head, a gesture of not only affection but reassurance as if to tell you: "you're not alone."

You never wished to be alone again.

You watched as the world passed by; posses of drunk over-indulgers stumbling about, pink neon lights flickering against the walls, rain cascading upon a friendless city. And your head on the shoulder of a fellow outcast.

"Do you have anyone left?" You muttered, words barely audible.

Dickie shook his head. "No."

"Neither do I."

"The fuck has the world become?!" He outburst suddenly, his voice nary far from a yell. "Fucking pricks all of 'em!!!" Dickie pulled his arm from your shoulder and twisted his body to face you. You gazed deeply into his eyes; the sorrow, the loss, the pain, danced across his irises as clear as a cloudless sky.

"I don't remember who I used to be." His countenance returned to its stillness as he reflected. Or rather, admitted. "But I fucking well know I wasn't this. This wasn't who I was meant to be. Some nonsensical sod who's bloody well off his tits every night! Shoving his dick into the asses of paying customers to make enough to get by!!!"

You watched the man breakdown just as you had, notably less civilized, but emotional nonetheless. Tears streamed down his cheeks, clustering along the harsh contours of his facial structure.

"I don't know who I am!!!!"

Dickie was sobbing relentlessly. He threw his body forward and gripped onto your lapels for dear life... as though he may lose any semblance of kinship he'd formed with you if he were to release his grasp.

"Please... don't you fucking leave me."

"I won't. I promise."

And that was all you could muster. A declaration, a vow, so to speak... made by you, to someone who ceased to exist in your mind not fifteen minutes ago. Some may call it mental. But your sudden spark of solidarity blossomed from the sanest segment of your soul.

And each dank night that followed this very eve, you were just a little bit less alone.

For you had Dickie.

And he had you.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

“sometimes, all it takes to make friends is to be the only two people in a room who aren’t cunts”

------------------------------------------------------------------

[kissmyhandcallmedarling]

art: ... so, eventually it’s too late for the pigeon to go to egypt and so he decides to stay with his friend.

sal: aw. that’s sweet. all’s well that ends well.

art: no. no, cause the winter keeps getting colder, and colder, and eventually the poor little pigeon dies. he dies. and the statue is so upset that his heart breaks and he dies too.

sal: you fucking with me?

art: no. and then the mayor, the mayor of the city, he sees this ugly grey statue and this dead mangy bird and he goes ‘what a fucking mess.’ and so they tear down the statue and they get the bird, and they throw them in the river.

[kissmyhandcallmedarling]

“one starts out with such a lot of heart. you just... give it away. never lose it completely though, do you. not for lack of trying, but, you’ve always got more to give. you think it’s gone. then it comes back. and as time passes and one sees one’s friends lose heart in life, or their hearts turn black due to disappointment or money. you put your heart away in a safe place where no one can touch it. and then one thinks ‘well, i’ve still got my heart’. and you keep fighting and kicking against the pricks because that’s all you’ve got. and you think ‘what happened to my heart’. and you go to that safe place where you hid it, and you look inside... and it’s gone.”

- the magician, david hoyle - set the thames on fire

[jentheodora]

Today I'm Dickie (played by Noel Fielding) from "Set The Thames on Fire " ! 😂😂😂 Idk why but it's always so much fun becoming Noel's Characters ! @noel_fielding . @jentheodora on insta . . . #jentheodora #jentheogoreable #makeuplove #goth #punkmakeup #themightyboosh #mightyboosh #boosh #noelfielding #julianbarrat #setthethamesonfire #dickie #charactermakeup #costume #makeupmobb #makeupgeek #instagoth #gothicmakeup #creepymakeup #weirdo #strange #creep #clown #clubkids #photo #artofinstagram #booshlr #makeupofinstagram #artoftumblr #makeupoftumblr (at Nanaimo, British Columbia)

[jentheodora]

Today I'm Dickie (played by Noel Fielding) from "Set The Thames on Fire " ! 😂😂😂 Idk why but it's always so much fun becoming Noel's Characters ! @noel_fielding @_julianbarratt . @jentheodora on insta . . . . #jentheodora #jentheogoreable #makeuplove #goth #punkmakeup #themightyboosh #mightyboosh #boosh #noelfielding #julianbarrat #setthethamesonfire #dickie #charactermakeup #costume #makeupmobb #makeupgeek #instagoth #gothicmakeup #creepymakeup #weirdo #strange #creep #clown #clubkids #photo #artofinstagram #booshlr #makeupofinstagram #artoftumblr #makeupoftumblr (at Nanaimo, British Columbia)

[jentheodora]

Today I'm Dickie (played by Noel Fielding) from "Set The Thames on Fire " ! . @jentheodora on insta . . . #jentheodora #jentheogoreable #makeuplove #goth #punkmakeup #themightyboosh #mightyboosh #boosh #noelfielding #julianbarrat #setthethamesonfire #dickie #charactermakeup #costume #makeupmobb #makeupgeek #instagoth #gothicmakeup #creepymakeup #weirdo #strange #creep #clown #clubkids #photo #artofinstagram #booshlr #makeupofinstagram #artoftumblr #makeupoftumblr (at Nanaimo, British Columbia)