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claybefree · 3 years

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Seeing as it's the twentieth anniversary, I guess I should post this again

September Third, Two Thousand and Nine

For years whenever anyone asked me when my son Henry was born I’d start to say September instead of August 25, 2001. Sunday he had his eighth birthday party at his mother’s house, and I stayed here. Most of his mother’s friends don’t care for me much. The feeling is mutual. Tonight coming home from work I started stitching what I’m about to write together in my mind and suddenly got very afraid. I thought for a moment that I was about to go get drunk, which might very likely be death for somebody like me. I was sure I was going to change direction of the truck, that I’d drive the same route I always did back then, that I would stand by the register and stare at the bottle in my hand without really knowing I where I was. I think it has to do with the weather finally changing and perhaps that Henry’s mom and I are no longer together. I sat on the porch of my little house and called a friend and told him all this. He listened and after a while I felt better, which is exactly how these things should go. When we decided we were done he told me I should go in and write all this down.

I worked on through that whole day. Most everybody else on the job had stopped and listened to each of the radios on the different floors or cried. The asshole Turks I was framing a bathroom for wouldn’t let me quit. They had tile to run. I found it made me feel better to keep going anyway. The laborers cussed me when I asked them to move so that I could use the table saw, a natural gathering spot on any job. They seemed to think I was calloused or hard-hearted and it was because I was from Tennessee. It just now occurred to me that maybe they were right.

That afternoon, when it was determined safe to walk across the bridges, most of the job, the other carpenters and trades-people, wandered home to Brooklyn or Queens. Me and the two left to close everything up had it different as we lived in Jersey. Anthony, the boss, was big and red-haired, red faced and lived in Hoboken. Duane was in charge of demolition and waste, was a little shorter and darker, and lived in Secaucus or maybe somewhere west of that I think. They squared off on each other frequently. It always reminded me of two walruses going at it on a beach.

Whenever we went out to the bar afterwards Anthony would have a Bud tall boy in each hand at all times, the waitress would come up with four for him whenever we sat down. On the job we liked to yell at each other, I once told him I was doing him a favor by giving him such an easy target, and he never missed an occasion to oblige me. Duane was a single dad, dark haired with deep sunken yet kind eyes that always seemed to have bags under them. One of the black laborers told him once he was the most Uncle Fester looking motherfucker he had ever seen. I tended to agree.

We locked the job up at four I think, humped it across the park through the smoke to the A-train. There was smoke forming a mist around the trees of central park that day. There were no flower children loitering at Yoko’s “Imagine” monument to barge through. Our thinking was to get downtown to the Path train. We had no idea that two of the stations had been destroyed. It didn’t matter, we were underground fifteen minutes before Anthony vetoed the idea. People were running wild through the stations, on the trains, everything was panic and Oh Fuck and Anthony had no intention of being underground. He had a funny look on his face that I couldn’t figure out. It wouldn't occur to me until later that the big man was very afraid.

In the years since I have always wondered why people have reacted so strongly from that day. Later we would go to war because of a something that happened one day in New York City and this has always seemed really strange to me. I guess what I mean is that I was there and never wanted to kill anybody because of it. Most of the time I just thought it was very strange and sad and mostly just very interesting. I only remember ever crying about it twice. The first time was a few months afterward, I had quit Anthony to stay home with Henry. Part of our routine was to watch Sesame Street. One day in the winter there was a skit where Elmo got very scared because of some smoke and noise that was never identified. I suppose in this case it was a nameless fear. A New York City fireman came on screen and hugged him, told him it was okay to be scared, Elmo, and that everything would be alright. I remember little red furry Elmo hugged the fireman tight. I held Henry in my lap and cried into his fine blonde hair.

It was the fireman that did it. I still get upset when I think about the firemen. I have had a lot of trouble with cops in different times in my life, but I never had a problem with any fireman I ever encountered, drunk or otherwise. They seem to me to be a different animal entirely.

Anthony, Duane and me ran into two firemen on the deck of the cruise boat that carried us across to Weehawken. They came in and collapsed on the painted metal floor, shedding boots and letting their helmets roll away. Some people applauded weakly, others asked questions, they just stared at us and said nothing. It didn’t occur to me until much later they were probably the only ones from their station who lived. Other men that for years they worked with, ate and fought with, got drunk with were dead. There was a bar I frequented in Jersey City a few blocks from our house where a couple of weeks later I saw three firemen in dress uniforms. One was between his partner on a stool and the third who was older and may have been a captain. The captain was clearly upset, swaggering and poking the other two in the chest. Everybody else was trying hard not to pay attention to what seemed about to develop into a fight. I think later I saw the old man leaning against the bar and weeping openly, he must have been sixty at least.

I got drunk in this bar Sept. 10th while my wife and kid slept back home. She’d start nursing and pass out with him and I’d head out to roam. The thing I liked about this place was the Sinatra on the jukebox, so that night I loaded it up and sat at the bar listening. I think it was the first time I’d ever heard “Summer Wind.” The tattooed brunette tending bar must have thought it was cute because she serenaded me, singing along with a couple of the songs. There was another man with a mustache further down the line who was putting the blast on her and didn’t seem to like me much so I got the fuck out early. By “early” I mean I didn’t close the place.

I won’t tell you what we saw on the boat ride across the Hudson, you’ve seen it already. We unloaded at Weehawken and everyone, thousands of high end refugees really, started walking south towards Hoboken where we had been told there were buses waiting to take us home. I noticed that even wearing boots, the three of us walked faster than the others. We were construction workers living and working around Manhattan and we were very good at walking. I remember being comforted by walking with them. Hundreds of buses lined the streets of Hoboken and the three of us walked the length of that town. Anthony broke off about halfway to head home. A couple of weeks later I showed up having laid out drunk for two days and told him I had come for my tools. He looked at me and didn’t say a word. He mailed me my check. I haven’t seen the man since.

Duane and me trudged the rest of Hoboken together. I heard that not soon after I left he was let go to cut costs and that not long after that he got into a bad time with a prostitute on rt. 1 & 9. The smoke in Hoboken was thicker than in the city and the fumes from streets filled with idling buses finally got my hangover to officially kick in. I told Duane about how I’d had “Summer Wind” playing as background music in my head all day. He laughed and began singing the song, each line perfectly. We got through the crowd easily, after hours of walking together we had finally hit a stride together. We were marching, really. There was the giant blue sky of the day broken intermittently by smoke and there was the roar of diesel noise and Hoboken and Duane singing Summer Wind to me; some punk kid from Tennessee who had no business being there.

The only other incident I remember having to cry because of some assholes who decided to fly planes into tall buildings was coming across the Manhattan bridge one night after carrying my sister-in-law home to Park Slope. She would come over most nights to hang out with the baby, and around eleven or so and in various states of sobriety I’d be asked to drive her back home. I never hated the terrorists for invoking a War of Terror, I hated them for causing enough terror that it fucked the roads up. Shit got closed for what seemed no fucking reason whatsoever. One day coming back from the pediatrician’s office, Henry got stuck howling in his car seat for four hours because the Holland Tunnel was handling too much traffic and we were too afraid to take him out of it because of the cops everywhere. My sister-in-law and I spent a lot of time in the Saturn together on the nights I drove her home. I can’t remember what we talked about, probably everything. I haven't spoken to my sister-in-law since I moved out last summer.

This particular night the Brooklyn Bridge was only operating east-bound into Brooklyn so after I dropped her off I was diverted back across the Manhattan Bridge in order to get back into the city and eventually home. The Manhattan Bridge back then was still under renovation and I guess has always been the ugly, cross-eyed cousin of the Brooklyn Bridge. I got stuck on it, moving slower than shit, and staring at trash and old faded plywood encasing the little bit of wrought iron and Neo-Classical elements that were left up by the arch. Off to the left t seemed as though the entirety of Downtown was illuminated from the work lights that were set up down by Ground Zero. Downtown glowed with lights that were set up to look for people that weren’t there anymore. The DJ on WFMU that night was playing a super slowed down cover of the B-52’s Song for a Future Generation. If you’ve heard it, you’ve probably laughed, it’s a ridiculously chirpy pop song. I’ve always loved it. The lyrics go a little like this:

Wanna be the ruler of the galaxy

Wanna be the king of the universe

Let`s meet and have a baby now

In between each stanza, the different members give spoken-word tidbits of information about themselves. For example Ricky, the original guitarist, was a Pisces and “loved computers and hot tamales.“ Ricky also died from AIDS back in 1985 when people still had no idea what the disease was.

The version I heard that night had slowed the tempo to that of a blues song. The dip-shit ironic hipster that sang it reflected this. Stuck on the bridge it felt as though I was listening to a lament. What reduced me to tears, smoking Winstons in my little Saturn station wagon, was the feeling that whatever was left of innocence had recently been or was about to be brutally murdered by pig-face, ignorant men. Wanna be the first lady of infinity. Wanna be the nicest guy on earth. Let's meet and have a baby now.

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martinlawless · 3 years

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National Masters Circuit Race Championship 2021. Age Category 45-49 Race.

British Cycling, National A Race E1234 Leicester Cycle Circuit Sunday 4 July 2021

The National Masters Circuit Race Championships… a chance to win a proper National jersey for the year as recognition by British Cycling. There are separate category races in 5-year bands from 30+. Men and Women.

This year is my last in the 45-49 year band. Everyone’s UCI birthday is 1st Jan, so I’ll be 50 next year on the final bong from Big Ben. I did this race two years ago and really enjoyed the event and scene. So I made it a priority to sign up to this one early on and focus in on it.

The race would be on the Leicester Cycle Circuit. I’d never been there before. Turns out to be a very good 1km loop. Tarmac quality excellent and good safe run-offs onto grass (take note Colchester). It’s not technical, really. Though racing makes things technical. A simple circuit means more speed. More speed means more reaction times required on challenges and opportunities that appear in the bunch. And, as ever, the wind and weather makes a virtual hill - turning a stretch into a danger zone that can challenge riders and generate a split. The course is dumbbell shaped, with the northern loop being tighter than the southern one. The northern one rises a bit too.

I set off in the car in very good time. I didn’t have anything to hold back for and get there to see teammate Chris in his 40-44 category race. His field is smaller than ours. Maybe 25 riders. It’s a tough race. Chris goes heroic and into the first break of four from the gun. Hauled in and blitzed, he finds it hard to stick at the back recovering while fresh breaks occur. It’s a reminder to me that in my 75 mins race there will be several attacks. If I find myself in a break, it has to be decisive - or I’m bailing out back to the bunch. I’ll burn up easily otherwise.

I’ve got my crit wheels on. New second-hand Dura-Ace C35 tubular wheels. Ramped up to 110psi just to feel extra bad-ass. Super quick and nippy. I sign in. Pin up. I nearly forget to put on the transponder, which would be a disaster. There’s a good chance of a heavy shower, but it’s warm. So race suit only. Becoming less racy with every wash. Factor 50 suncream. I love my Koo eyewear, but for close-quarters crit stuff, I prefer my “100%” wraparounds that give me brilliant peripheral vision and eyes in the back of my head. I feel like a bit of a doofus Daft Punk wannabe. But - hey, safety first. I do a regular back garden workout. I always add in stretching around the neck and shoulders in simulation of the constant need to look around you in a tight race. I should do pilates and yoga as I get older too.

I have a good little chat with James from Cinnamon-Contour. He’s bandaged up like Roglic having had a crash in the sprint at Hillingdon in one of the rehearsal races last week. I’m impressed he’s back. I also bump into Chris from Verulam. I’m confident he’ll do well. The course suits his atomic finishing sprint power. He finished 3rd in one of the rehearsal races. Other than that, I don’t really know anyone - jut a few of the usual faces and backsides. It’s a good thing: it means the race is bringing in people from all regions - not just the south and east. I hear all sorts of accents. I’m concerned by how fit looking some of these old boys appear!

Our race is the most popular. I’m unsure why, but I have a theory it’s because mid-life crisis is peaking as people get to 50. One last chance to pretend to be Sam Bennett, Cav or Caleb.

This is a proper British Cycling event. The briefing is more stringent than the usual “rock-up with a banana and go” race. This adds nicely to the drama ahead. It feels significant. Points go down to 15th place. The top-third will score today. I am in a bit of a downward points spiral from my current 2nd Cat licence. The points started late this season - early races were zero-points post-COVID. And now I can’t see where I’ll get them from. I simply can’t find the time or BC events. To be honest though: a gentle relegation into 3rd Category doesn’t bother me at all. I’ll have more options to race.

There’s always something to forget or nearly forget. It’s a gel at the start this time. But I remember in time on the start line. I will have another halfway I reckon. I put my finger on my Wahoo to ensure I don’t forget to start the all-important Strava. We have two neutralised laps behind the car to get used to the bends and we’re released.

It’s a steady start. I expect we are all mostly unfamiliar with the course and each other and just want to walk into this one. Eventually, there’s a break and the peloton cranks up.

In a rather unconventional prep, I’d ridden a Hilly TT the Sunday before, a Zwift crit Monday, a tired chaingang Tuesday. Then did the Fred Whitton loop in the Lake District on Thursday with three friends. I’m unsure 110 miles featuring the toughest ascents in England, three sleeps before a short high energy effort, is in any training manual. After the Fred, I did not turn a pedal. I was unsure where my legs would be. In the first few laps I’m relieved to feel they are fine. A sports massage helped. In fact, I feel good. The Fred had raised my pain threshold it felt. When asked to dig deep, it was no problem.

I’m pleased to be lolling around the top third or so in the bunch. The first break gets a third of a lap gap. But the bunch aren’t really bothered. All the same, there’s always a rider or two getting frustrated about the lack of coherence in hauling them in. The laws of physics prevail, and the first break fizzles out eventually.

I can hear Chris cheer me on each lap which is motivating. I concentrate on my line, holding it, seizing gaps where possible and generally keeping my nose clean. As expected, I don’t feel I can be in a small break. I just need to watch out for a big split. I can feel this isn’t going to happen though after a while.

The wind is a bit tasty. As much as it’s valuable to look at those big flags you get at events for the direction, you can’t beat throwing a bit of grass up in the air before a race for the truth.

It gets tight at times. This Leicester doesn’t feel that wide. I go onto the grass on one lap to avoid a clash. In these situations you don’t panic, just glide back on and everything is all right. I get a good backside push on another lap. No problem. ‘On your left’, ‘On your right’. All the good calls you want in a race. No daft riding here which was appreciated.

A second break is brought in. Then on 37 minutes, the decisive break from Ian, who everyone seemed to fear, was made. He would take another rider with him and the bunch would let him go pretty easily.

The last laps approach and the race dynamic changes. The bunch gets top heavy as people prepare for the sprint. The last few laps are very twitchy. We are wide across the lane and very tight as everyone jostles for the sprint. I find myself in the middle of the bunch at times and hate it: locked in shoulder to shoulder. There’s few oohs and aaahs as riders barge each other. I see one rider barged and he has to unclip to save himself. He skips along the road on foot at 30mph+ and re-clips without losing too much momentum. It’s impressive control regained. I can see Verulam Chris inching forward. I want to keep on his wheel but the way through is blocked. It’s always remarkable how you might have a few laps to make a simple move up a few bike lengths - yet it’s just not doable. Stuck.

Into the final lap and final bend, it’s high speed but I’ve got something extra in the tank to give. I am forced wide if I’m to apply any sprint. This puts me out of the draught, and I lose momentum, but I gain a clean run. My sprint is OK. I can hold a decent effort for 10 seconds, albeit I won’t be strong enough to gain ground. The front of the tight sprint pulls away while I come in just off the back of it but ahead of the string of others behind.

I replay the last moments over and over. It’s hard to see what else I could have done except to maybe find more confidence in my endurance to move up and hold a premium position early on. I eventually scan the data. I’m 21st and ahead of me are many names I know to be strong. I’m happy with that.

I return to the car park and change. I have a good post-race chat with Chris. He has crazy high power and he’ll smash a race soon, with a bit of luck, choosing the right break. I decide to have a peep at the Cat 3-4 race going on after ours. As I rock up, there’s a crash at the most basic point of the course. Four riders down. Three get back up gingerly, one a lot slower. I’m thankful our race ended safe and well. Take out the neutralised laps and our race is well over 27mph average. Dynamic and speedchess-like reactions required at all times.

Tired of sugary things, I crave salt, so stop off at the nearby McDonalds on the way back. The most biblical thunderstorm kicks off in the drive-thru. I wonder what would have happened to our race in such conditions. As I carefully navigate the motorway with Lance Armstrong’s ‘The Move’ on Spotify, I wonder if they black flag circuit races for lightning as we all go around a big open field sat on quite metallic things.

I think about next year’s Masters and take a look at the results for this year’s 50-54 category. I’m slightly disappointed to see names of strong riders I know struggle to reach the points. It’s a useful reminder that it never gets easier - we just get older.

Strava link: https://www.strava.com/activities/5574763935

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writtenatlargetellingstories · 7 years

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The following is something I wrote all the way back in 2014 on an old blog. It was also published on GonzoToday.com. Enjoy!

The Big Apple, Or: Small Town Kid Meets The City

Portland’s unofficial slogan might be “Keep Portland Weird,” but for New York it is just a mutual understanding among the locals. When you have a population of over 8,000,000 people, Weird is naturally going to be a demographic the politicians will have to cater to along with the Rich and the Poor and 1,000 shades in between.

It doesn’t matter where you call home, if it isn’t New York City, the natives are going to think you’re from some second-rate BFE. Tell them you’re from the South and all of a sudden you’re an inbred yokel who’s confused by flashing lights and that food can be cooked without lard. And probably worst of all, they suspect you voted for a Bush or a Romney.

Besides flashing lights, the City has a lot to offer. It’s Sodom and Gomorrah and Disney World rolled into one, just with more corporate sponsors. If you’re an average Joe Schmo, be sure to see the sights. If you’re wealthy and haven’t fulfilled your dream of finally shitting gold, be sure to check out Serendipity 3 and order the $1,000 Golden Opulence Sundae. You’ll be dropping 23-carat nuggets in no time. Just be sure to give them a two-day heads up and they will even let you keep the Baccarat Harcourt crystal goblet that the sundae came in. So bring the kids and the missus. A life’s savings wouldn’t hurt, either.***

When apartment hunting, you can skip Manhattan. The likelihood of you and yours being able to find and afford anything there with your entry-level jobs isn’t impossible, only mathematically improbable. For the price of a studio in Manhattan with a note stating that you can fit a bed and a dresser but no mention of a bathroom or kitchen, you can get a two bedroom in Queens.

Tourists might be amazed at all of the beautiful, fit youths walking around the City and susceptible to a rumor going around that this is because affordable apartments also require a gym membership. This isn’t because the landlords only want healthy, good looking tenants, but rather because they don’t have bathrooms or showers.

Queens isn’t so bad and if you work in the City all you have to do is hop on what is known to the locals as the Orient Express, the 7 train, and your half-hour commute will leave you 45 minutes late to work. The train also runs local stops if you wanted to be delayed even longer before getting to work. The MTA personnel will reassure you that any and all delays are due to a sick passenger or train traffic ahead of us or both at the same time. People who buy ad space in the trains can sleep easy at night knowing that hundreds of people are familiarizing themselves with the advertisements and pondering if they have the correct career or bra size. At least half of them work, I applied to be a teaching fellow six months after moving here.

Queens, once one of the largest strongholds for the largest Irish communities in the City, has now been transformed into a confused schizophrenic who still believes it is still Irish deep down inside but is actually split between its own Hispanic and Asian personalities on any given day. Young residents of certain communities in Queens are proudly claiming their area is being gentrified, a term thrown around by young Americans hoping that their surroundings will eventually become white-washed and the new hot-spot for 20-something year old hipsters with brewpubs and gourmet BBQ restaurants and a price hike in our rent.

***

Nothing is more welcoming to a new city than having your new New York City apartment burgled while you are at work. If you don’t have time for the 3-hour waiting period for the cops to show up, take it from me, tell the poor saps at 911 that your handgun was stolen. Your wait-time will be cut down to a bare-bone 10 minutes with police lights blazing and not one but two patrol cars if not more depending on how busy the cops are that night.

The downside to getting this speedy police service is that guns are basically outlawed here. Just to have a handgun in your house you need a slew of permits and bureaucratic paperwork. Forget about purchasing one in the City legally. The cops will be the first to tell you that they often go to New Jersey, where gun laws are more relaxed, to pick up their own service weapons since even they can’t stand to deal with the New York laws.

After being cuffed and uncuffed and told we were just going for a ride to the precinct to speak to the captain, just to have a little talk about the details of the robbery, and to report the handgun and other items as stolen, I ended up being booked for a misdemeanor. I was lucky that there weren’t any bullets, I was told. That’s a felony charge. The police locked me up in a holding cell next to a sign strategically placed by the cell stating that if you have a gun that you can drop it off no questions asked and receive $25 for the deposit. Just some light reading after you have been locked up.

Various officers came in and talked to me off and on between reports and phone calls. One came over and leaned on the bars to the cell and started questioning me about the make and model, what kind of wood the handle had, and if I was satisfied with the gun itself. He was thinking of getting one himself but wasn’t sure if he was going to go with that model or a Colt. He was a fan of Westerns and dreamed of being a cowboy. He said: “You’ll be alright. They’ll go easy on you, I bet. Just remember you aren’t in Kansas anymore, as they say.”

At 3:40 am, two officers came in with a fat white man in his mid-thirties and a black male prostitute in drag. They had been caught in the act in his car with what they believed was cocaine. It was then decided that I would be more comfortable at central booking and the same two cops that just strolled in with the fat man and prostitute cuffed me, again, cutting off circulation to my fingers. The marks and bruises would last a week, marks of initiation into an age-old brotherhood of criminals and wrongdoers and those just in the wrong place at the right time.

First, you are put in one cell. Then another. Then it is time for your mug shot and checking in. There’s no way to take a good mug shot. You’ll always end up looking like a crazed Nick Nolte no matter what your race or gender is.

After all this, you are then placed in yet another cell. Here I got to meet the people I’d be spending the day with. From this cell we had a good view of the TV. The news was running a story about how Ariel Castro had committed suicide by hanging himself with bedsheets in his own prison cell. Someone asked who the hell this cracker was and why we should give a shit. “Asshole, he’s the president of Puerto Rico. Dumb motherfucker.”

“Why they got the president locked up in the first place?”

“What the fuck I look like, huh? Some shit that reads the paper? Shee-yit.”

A lady with a clipboard came around and asked for those with jobs to make a line at the bars. “Name of company, address, and telephone number.” When it was my turn, I couldn’t remember the address or telephone number of my employers. I told the lady that and asked what this was for. “Do you have a job or not, and if so, what is their name, address, and telephone number?” It was apparent– they weren’t there for shits and giggles or kind understanding. One poor soul was supposed to start his job that very morning. The lady with the clipboard’s advice, “Well, start looking for something else, son.”

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At first, no one gave a shit about the others there until someone brought up warrants. “You got warrants?” “Oh, yeah, how many warrants you got?” And so on. This cut the tension in the air and those that spoke English (which was the majority of us except for two Chinese guys and three Mexicans). Pretty soon it was a social gathering and all were partaking in the pissing contest that were our crimes. One guy had actually pissed on a cop. He couldn’t hold it while waiting on the train and took a leak off of an above-ground station. As fate would have it, a cop was standing below him being showered upon. As fate would also have it, he had two outstanding warrants. Another was arrested because his girlfriend said he was abusing her, smacking her around at home, but, as he put it, he was going to get off since it was his word against hers… and her friend’s who also saw it. There were also two rowdy drunks with three shoes between them. The missing shoe had been tossed at a cop outside of a bar. The shoe pitcher was easily caught. According to him, it is pretty damn hard to outrun the cops with only one loafer. His friend was arrested for telling the cops to “take it easy.” For the rest of the morning they celebrated their camaraderie until they both sobered up, and we learned they weren’t friends at all and had actually never seen each other before that evening.

Probably the unluckiest person there was Jamel. Jamel had been staying at a motel somewhere as a meeting point for him and his lady. He let us know that that day he had to make multiple trips to the nearest gas station for pop and chips. A 30-minute walk in both directions and he had done this at least 4, maybe 5 times that day. Around 7 o’clock, his lady called him up to let him know that she had a friend that would be joining them for their rendezvous. Jamel, tired of making all those damn trips to the gas station and noticing he needed more chips and pop and “roll-ons” for this endeavor, decided to borrow a car that had been idling outside his room. By his report, the car had been there all day, just running. So, he borrowed it and came right back only to find that the cops were waiting for him and snatched him up even though he felt some of them understood his story and even commented that they might have done the same if they were in his shoes. There he was, stuck in holding in Queens, and his lady and her friend waiting for him at a motel somewhere probably just watching TV and eating his chips.

It was around this time that I got my joint nickname. Racially speaking, we were our own Rainbow Coalition, but I was the odd man out. The song “One of these things is not like the others” being sung by giddy Muppets comes to mind. For the rest of our time together, I was known as “White Boy” by my cell mates.

“White Boy, what you get locked up for?”

“Hey all, White Boy got busted for gun possession. Only White Boy would be arrested for gun possession while not possessing a gun because he called the cops on himself.”

“White Boy, your dad got a lawyer? You gotta sue the pigs and then you remember me and we’ll have one hell of a cookout. Yup, White Boy, we’ll live it up big time. Big time.”

We were finally moved to the final holding cells to await our meetings with our public defenders. The hallway is long and has cells on both sides facing each other. We were crammed in a cell with at least 20 other people in them, most of them laid out on the floor using their shoes as pillows. At about 6:30, they served breakfast. The meal would be the same at lunch and dinner. Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for all three meals. These sandwiches were made from stale bread and the jelly of a single grape and the butter of maybe two or three peanuts. Those not hungry enough to try to eat these sandwiches used them to play a game. The game consisted of seeing who could get theirs to stick to the ceiling. This game then turned into a game that consisted of seeing whose sandwich would stick there the longest. From the looks of it, this wasn’t a game that had just been thought up by us.

These cells have a single aluminum toilet that also serves as a drinking fountain. Only one of us braved to use the thing in either function. And he decided to undress for the experience.

Bit by bit, little by little, people left us and were believed to have been set free. From the original gang, the cop-pisser-on-er was let go first. Then the shoe thrower. Though his “comrade” was left behind and was still there when I left. Towards the end it was just Jamel, the comrade, and I still there. We were joined by two more, but by now our cell was looking pretty thinned-out and conversation was getting kind of boring since we had discussed our cases through and through and we were all now experts on the law after listening to the narrations of veterans of the system. These two new guys were a release from our boredom. One had brought two cigarettes and matches that he had hidden under his testicles. No one took him up on his offer of sharing one. After a while, he decided he didn’t need to get busted smoking by a guard. The other guy came in bragging about getting busted with coke while he was getting serviced by a prostitute. He told the story over and over again, prouder of himself with each telling, happy that the others were eating it up. He looked over to me and said, “Hey, don’t I know you from somewhere.”

“Yeah, I was in the holding cell when they brought you in.”

After that, he didn’t seem to like sharing his story anymore. Hubris taken down a notch. Which has my vote as the City’s unofficial slogan.

Dr. Kurt Doonesbury November 7th, 2k14

P.S. All charges were dropped. A lack of possession set me free.

Vintage K. Doonesbury: The Big Apple #AmWriting #Story #Storytelling #Blogger The following is something I wrote all the way back in 2014 on an old blog. It was also published on…

#amwriting #arrest #blog #blogger #blogging #cops #funny #gun #humor #Kurt Doonesbury #New York #New York City #NYC #politics #Queens #short story #story #storytelling #word collage #writer #writing

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awkwardlyamusing-blog · 5 years

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Katie Price is put in a headlock during mock ambush scenario while training her new guard dog

New Post has been published on http://doggietrainingclasses.com/katie-price-is-put-in-a-headlock-during-mock-ambush-scenario-while-training-her-new-guard-dog/

Katie Price is put in a headlock during mock ambush scenario while training her new guard dog

Katie Price and her children Princess, 12, and Junior, 14, were the victims of a carjacking in April last year.

And in order to make her family feel safe again, Katie, 41, has invested in a guard dog named Blade – one year after her last pooch was run over by a pizza delivery driver.

The TV personality has now taken training her canine up a notch by employing a security firm to set up a mock robbery on Saturday, with the former glamour model acting out being taken hostage.

In order for Blade to learn special drills and manoeuvres – to provide the best security and protection to Katie and her brood – the hired security personnel ensured they looked the part.

Donning a balaclava, one man hooked his arm around the former Loose Women panellist’s neck.

Joining Katie for the epic mock ambush scenario was her eldest daughter Princess, 12, who looked on as they put Blade through his paces in the mock crime setting.

For the action-packed day, Katie ensured she was comfortable by sporting a red hooded jumper and grey tracksuit bottoms.

She continued her relaxed look by slipping her feet into trainers and ensured her long blonde extensions didn’t get tangled by wearing her hair up in a ponytail.

Paw patrol: Joining Katie for the epic dog training session was her eldest daughter Princess, 12, who looked on as they put Blade through his paces in the mock crime setting

Scary: In order for Blade to learn special drills and manoeuvres – to ensure he can provide the best security and protection to Katie and her brood – the hired security personnel donned balaclavas

Red flag: For the busy day, Katie ensured she was comfortable by sporting a red hooded jumper and grey tracksuit bottoms

Fetch: Katie’s mini-me didn’t mind getting stuck in with helping with the dog training as she threw a ball to Blade and ran around on the grass with her four-legged friend

Princess also kept it casual in jersey shorts and a pink T-shirt which was partially hidden below a fluffy beige coat.

Katie’s mini-me did not mind getting stuck in with helping with the dog training as she threw a ball to Blade and ran around on the grass with her four-legged friend.

The TV personality appeared to get into the spirit of things by taking her role as hostage seriously before taking a break to make a phone call.

Later on, the busty star showed her playful side as she danced around in the garden and waved her arms in the air.

Direction: Princess and Katie took instructions from the security team

Good boy: Katie rubbed Blade as she praised the furry friend for working hard

Last month, Katie shared footage on Instagram in which she was seen training the obedient pooch, who tailed the star around and followed her commands.

Gushing over her new pet, the mother-of-five also shared a close up snap of the pup on her story, writing, ‘Love my dog Blade @protectionworldwide.’

Katie has faced criticism for splashing out on the dog – the fifth in a number of pooches that have either died or been sold to ease her financial woes.

Well-behaved: Blade whizzed around with the grassy patch as Princess flung him a ball

Committed: Bombshell Katie appeared to get into the spirit of things by taking her role as hostage seriously

Like mother, like daughter: Katie is extremely close to her eldest daughter Princess, with the two sharing serveral sweet moments during the day

According to The Sun, the busty bombshell has adopted the guard dog in order for her daughter Princess to feel safer in the house as she still suffers after the horrific carjacking that took place in South Africa.

The publication reported that she revealed: ‘I will feel safer and so will Princess as she still suffers from the hijack at gun point we had in South Africa when filming.’

Following the horrific event, the star told friends that she feared for the life of her two children during the robbery.

The three of them were thrown out the vehicle by the attackers during their journey from Johannesburg to Swaziland in two people carriers as their mobile phones, laptops, passports and money were all stolen.

Concentration: Katie was thoroughly involved in the training of her pooch Blade

Chit-chat: Katie took a break to take a call on her mobile phone

Job to do: Katie, Princess and the trainer were in full concentration mode amid the training of Blade

Sources said Junior needed a toilet stop as the convoy drove down the busy N17 in darkness as they approached the town of Chrissiesmeer in Mpumalanga province.

As both vehicles pulled onto the hard shoulder a following VW Golf with three men in it said to be high on drugs saw a ‘golden opportunity’ and pulled in behind Price’s convoy.

According to police, the attackers were unarmed but launched a vicious attack on the group, leaving one of the guards unconscious.

Their vehicles were ransacked of laptops, IPads, passports, cash and jewellery – but the robbers left behind a fortune in camera gear which the film crew had stored on board.

Attaboy! Blade was hard at work as he was put through his paces by the trainer

In disguise: Two of the trainers were in character as they acted out a dangerous scenario with Katie and dog blade

A dog’s life: Blade, who donned a smart, blue bandanna, appeared contented during his day of intense training

All smiles: The trainer, Princess and even Blade appeared in a good mood amid the training

What’s so funny? Katie and the trainer appeared amused by something on a phone at one point

A source told The Sun: ‘Katie was terrified and frantically worried for her little ones. This was a horrific ordeal… every mum’s worst nightmare.’

Afterwards, armed security guards were enlisted to protect Katie and her children as they carried on the filming of her reality TV show My Crazy Life.

It comes after comes just under a year after her beloved dog Queenie was killed by a ‘heartless delivery driver in hit and run’.

A source The Sun at the time: ‘It’s no secret that Katie is a huge animal lover – and just can’t get enough of German Shepherds.

‘Her previous dog was run over and killed by a takeaway driver, and after getting one last year she couldn’t resist another adorable pup.

New addition: Last month, Katie shared footage on Instagram in which she was seen training the obedient pooch, who tailed the star around and followed her commands

‘She was forced to sell off quite a few off her animals last year but thinks the dogs are positive impact on her life.’

Katie shares her two eldest children, Princess and Junior, with ex Peter Andre.

The couple married in September 2005 after meeting on I’m A Celebrity… Get Me Out of Here! in 2004 before separating in 2009.

Katie is also mother to Harvey Price, 18, from her relationship with Dwight Yorke, as well as Bunny, five, and Jett, 4, from her marriage to estranged husband Kieran Hayler.

Horrific: The model and her children Princess, 12, and Junior 14, were victims of a carjacking in April last year (pictured in 2017)

Former flames: Katie shares her two eldest children, Princess and Junior, with ex Peter Andre who she met on I’m A Celebrity… Get Me Out of Here! in 2004 before separating in 2009

What has happened to Katie Price’s pets?

Katie Price has bought herself a guard dog – a German Shepherd puppy to ensure she is safe after a horrifying carjacking.

But it’s just one dog in a long list of pets owned by Katie that she appears to no longer own.

The glamour model splashed out on an expensive £1,000 puppy Bear of the same breed before Christmas.

She was swerving bankrupt when she bought the dog – but he hasn’t appeared on Katie’s Instagram since May.

Just one year earlier, her beloved Alsatian puppy Queenie was allegedly killed by a delivery driver.

Before Queenie, the star was also left heartbroken when her Dogue de Bordeaux dog Vera ‘died in her sleep’ at eight years old.

Katie had an older German Shepherd named Sparkle, but she hasn’t appeared in snaps on social media since March.

The TV star was recently accused of putting her animals up for sale to help ease her financial woes.

And it’s not just dogs that Katie has kept – and given away.

In July 2018, Katie was forced to put her farmyard animals up for sale to help raise funds, pawning off two llamas, four horses, goats, pigs, sheep and even guinea pigs.

However, the star was talked out of giving away her children’s two sphynx cats Dobbie and Hagrid by ex husband Peter Andre.

Her children were also allowed to keep their African hedgehog Peggy – although it hasn’t been seen on her Instagram since February.

Katie has also faced criticism after many of her pets have met a tragic end to their life.

Their chameleon Marvin allegedly ‘died of a broken heart’ after her children Princess and Junior left the lizard with Katie when they moved to live with dad Peter.

In 2017, her horse was killed by a car with two others injured after they escaped from a field and ran onto the road.

Katie also previously owned a micro pig named Bingles – but had to give the little animal away after it became ‘aggressive when people were eating food’, according to Celebs Now.

Source link Dog Training

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jacewilliams1 · 6 years

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Student flight control jam

Aeroflex-Andover Airport, New Jersey, 1962

Aeroflex Airport is located about 40 miles northwest of New York City in the town of Andover, New Jersey. The runway is located in a valley between two forested ridge lines in a very picturesque, heavily wooded area that includes many ponds and lakes. In fact, there are bodies of water on the approach ends of each runway. I had been hired by the owner of the airport and its FBO as an instructor and charter pilot, with duties that also included being his personal pilot as well. In the early 1960s, operations like this were thriving across the country.

Al came from a background of farming and was also a skilled tractor mechanic and seemed to adapt to any mechanical vehicle easily. He began his flight training with me in our Cessna 150, which was a late 1950s model with a straight tail and “fastback” fuselage. Aeroflex Airport owned two 150s for student training. Al took to the flight training with no difficulties and did his first solo flight in minimum flight time.

Aeroflex-Andover is a great general aviation airport.

This particular day Al was flying on his third hour of supervised solo, meaning these solo flights needed to be approved by me beforehand. The maneuvers he was to do would be agreed to by me and Al. He departed normally and considering his progress so far, I had no concerns about his flight.

Perhaps 20 minutes after his takeoff, Al called on the Unicom frequency: “Bob, I’ve got trouble with the controls.” I responded quickly. “What’s the trouble, Al?”

“I can’t move the control wheel forward or back. It’s stuck a little aft of the neutral position. Ailerons and rudder are fine. Just the elevator.”

Wow. This is a problem! What to do next? I couldn’t do anything from where I was on the ground, so I decided to use our other 150 and fly next to his airplane to see if anything could be seen from looking at his airplane in flight. I called him again on Unicom: “Al, how are you making out controlling the airplane?”

He came back: “I’m okay now, but in the beginning with the wheel aft of neutral, I added power and climbed, then closed the throttle and did a glide and kept doing that. Then I discovered a throttle position that let me hold altitude but flying slower. That’s what I’m doing now.”

I responded: “Al, that’s excellent thinking. You’re doing a great job with this. I’m going to come up in our other 150 to look over your airplane. Where are you now?”

“I’m just east of the airport, on the other side of Lake Lenape”

“I’ll be up there as fast as I can!” I grabbed Harry, a pilot for Pan American, to go with me in the 150.

Harry and I were now flying in the area that Al said he was located and we saw nothing, but when I looked down I saw a 150 very low doing steep turns and sharp pull-ups at tree-top level. What is he doing? Has he lost control of the airplane? The 150 now headed towards the east and was climbing higher, which gave me some hope that we could salvage this. It took many minutes for us to catch up to him and we were now virtually flying formation. We could see him in the cockpit looking straight ahead. He didn’t answer any of our radio calls. Then it hit me: this 150 next to us had wheel pants, our 150 did not.

I said: “Harry, we screwed up. That’s not our 150. We got the wrong one!” Then we turned left and away. I’m sure the pilot of that 150 never knew we were there, even though we were looking in his window watching him. His head never turned from straight ahead!

What now? I headed toward the east looking frantically for our 150 and Al. Harry and I finally had a few minutes to think more about this control problem and began talking more about the elevator trim tab as being a partial solution. We quickly decided to spare Al any more complications and not mention the trim tab. The elevator trim tab would need to be moved in reverse of normal to get the nose up or nose down that Al would want. Way too complicated.

Newark isn’t nearly as nice a GA airport, but those long runways can come in handy.

Then we heard a weak transmission and it was Al’s voice on the radio. I called him on Unicom frequency by his tail number and by his name. He answered. I said, “Al, where are you?” He came back, “I don’t know but I’m headed south and I see huge buildings off to my left and big white gas tanks on the ground just ahead of me.” I quickly responded, “I’m pretty sure the buildings you see are New York City and the tanks are on the Jersey side. I know about where you are. Try to stay in that area so we can come over and join up with you.” Al said, “I’ll try.”

It wasn’t 15 minutes and we saw Al’s airplane. Unbelievable luck. We got up next to his airplane. He seemed happy to see us, but obviously not under the best of circumstances. We saw nothing unusual about Al’s airplane and the problem now became: how do we get him down?

Then a call came from a Unicom station located at one of the smaller airports in central New Jersey. I don’t remember which airport. The ground guy said, “I’ve been listening to what you are up against and I’d sure like to help you any way I can.” I said, “Well, what I’m thinking now is we need an airport with a very long runway in order to talk this 150 down.”

“How’s this for an idea?” the guy on the ground said. “Suppose I call Newark tower on the phone and explain the predicament and see if they could help.” I said, “That sounds great. Be sure to tell them this is a student pilot flying the troubled 150. He has no pitch control of his airplane and he has a total flying experience of about 18 hours.”

“I’ll do it. Stand by,” he said.

In a short time, he responded. “They’re ready for you. Here’s what they want: You’ll be landing on Runway 11 and you can lead the other 150 on a long straight in, then you pull up making a left pattern to also land on Runway 11. You can talk to the student, but on a mile final you need to switch to the Tower frequency.”

“We will do that. You saved our bacon today and I’ll talk to you on the phone later.”

I said to Al, “You heard that. Sounds good to you?” Al said “Oh yeah.”

“Al, listen to what I’m going to tell you. This is going to be easier than you think. I’ll need to get in front of you on the approach to the airport in order for me to lead you to the runway. On your descent you will need to control both the airspeed and the rate of descent with the throttle. You’ll be doing the same thing you were doing holding altitude earlier, but with less throttle than before. The airplane will come down with less throttle. You follow me to the airport and you will see the big runway in front of you. I will fly to 200 feet and pull up. You continue right on down to maybe a foot above the runway and close the throttle. Keep the airplane level with the ailerons and straight with the rudder and ride it out. Let the airplane do what it wants to do. The most important thing is this: when you close the throttle DO NOT OPEN THE THROTTLE AGAIN, under any circumstance. Are you good with this?”

Al said, “I think so.”

I said, “You’ve been doing amazingly well so far. I know this will come out just fine.”

Landing a 150 with a stuck elevator? It just takes patience and good throttle control.

We maneuvered into position, me in front and Al flying behind me and down we went toward Runway 11 at Newark. I heard nothing from Al while we were both still on Unicom frequency so I felt his airplane was under control and stable. It became time for me to switch to the Tower. At 200 feet, I pulled up into a left turn and looked back and down to see Al’s 150 just touching down. I could see considerable bouncing, but the airplane quickly stopped and there appeared to be no big problems. The yellow Port Authority cars quickly surrounded the airplane and began to lead him to taxi to Newark Air Service for parking.

I landed and met Al at the FBO. He had a big grin on his face and a hearty handshake. He said that as soon as the airplane hit the ground, the control wheel loosened up and moved normally. Further examination of the tail section found a drill bit sitting in the tailcone, which was the same size drill bit that was used to drill the VOR antenna mounting hole in the upper vertical fin. It was obviously left there at the Cessna factory and over time worked its way down through the lightening holes until it wedged in the elevator bell crank.

Al was an extraordinary man. Fortunately for all of us he was a great problem solver and could manage great stress. Not many people could have handled all the stresses he had that day. It was about two hours’ time from when he called me on Unicom until he was safely on the ground at Newark. Low fuel was beginning to be a concern, but I didn’t need to throw anything more his way.

Back home at Andover, he and I sat and reviewed the action of the day. I proposed he come and fly again as soon as possible. He held up his hand to stop me from talking and said, “Bob. Today was my last airplane ride. I quit.”

The post Student flight control jam appeared first on Air Facts Journal.

from Engineering Blog https://airfactsjournal.com/2019/03/student-flight-control-jam/

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dani-qrt · 6 years

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World Cup Brings England Together at a Time of Division

LONDON — In the giddy aftermath of England’s 2-0 quarterfinal victory over Sweden in the World Cup on Saturday, Andy Ward staggered out of a pub and into a tattoo parlor. He stripped off his shirt and bared his chest to a shaver. Then a tattoo artist etched St. George’s Cross — the English flag — over his heart.

Mr. Ward, 51, a decorator, concedes he might have been a bit tipsy at the time. But he doesn’t regret his decision, at all.

“No one expected this,” he said on Monday, sipping a pint at a southwest London pub and showing off his new tattoo. “We only dreamed of getting so far. We’re not used to this kind of success.”

He was talking about the fact that England hasn’t won the World Cup since 1966 — and, more recently, has endured one World Cup disappointment after another. Suddenly, a young, dynamic team led by a manager who has become an unexpected national hero is two wins away from reclaiming the cup, while England, which has been cleaved by politics and hasn’t had much to celebrate of late, is going, well, nuts.

So nuts, in fact, that in a week when the government of Prime Minister Theresa May has been plunged into new chaos — with ministers resigning and the fate of the country’s effort to exit the European Union more uncertain than ever — much of the nation seems determined to take a timeout from the acrimonious politics and bask in something recently in short supply: Unity, not to mention blind hope.

“This World Cup feels like a distraction from everything,” said Michael Gibbons, 44, author of “When Football Came Home: England, the English and Euro 96” who ticked off a list of tragedies last year, such as the deadly fire at the Grenfell Tower housing block in London, or the terror attacks in Manchester and London — not to mention the ugly aftermath of the Brexit vote.

“The divisiveness over the Brexit vote and what that has done to society is obvious,” he said, adding: “So the England run has been a kind of serotonin to all of that.”

Far from everyone is basking in England’s newfound warmth and fuzziness. Croatia, which is playing England on Wednesday in the semifinals, has very different opinions, for one. And large parts of the rest of Britain — especially sections of Scotland and Wales — would be absolutely pleased to see their English neighbors lose, and lose badly.

But within England itself, many fans, largely reared on a steady diet of soccer disappointments and trained to brace for World Cup matches with apprehension, have responded with outbursts of unabashed euphoria that have caught people by surprise (and some sporadic cases of alcohol-influenced vandalism, including at an Ikea outlet after the Sweden win). On social media, people are joking — at least partly joking — that the team’s manager, Gareth Southgate, now famous for wearing a tie and waistcoat during matches, might do a better job than the embattled Ms. May at steering the country through Brexit.

The excitement has even moved tennis officials at Wimbledon to soften their policy requiring phones be shut off during matches to allow fans at Centre Court to watch the soccer games, albeit without the sound. (Some players noticed when English soccer fans left the stands during one of the team’s matches.) Grown men have broken down in tears and sung a famous English soccer song, “Three Lions,” which is again topping music charts, 22 years after its release.

Even though the national team is full of bright young players who have performed well in the Premier League, the top level of English soccer, the current members of the squad are largely inexperienced when it comes to the international arena. That helped dampen expectations before the World Cup, and few thought the team would advance deep into the tournament, let alone win it.

The pivotal moment came in the first knockout round, last week, when England won a penalty shootout for the first time in its World Cup history last week, beating Colombia.

David Rawlins, an England supporter who attended the game in Russia, said: “The whole stadium’s heart was thumping. You could hear it.”

“When we won, everything changed,” he added. “People started to believe in England and football again.”

England’s relative success has posed a problem for fans in other parts of the United Kingdom, however. Ross Barnett, an England fan who has lived in Glasgow, Scotland, for 17 years, said that the Swedish team had enjoyed widespread support at his local pub on Saturday, and that some fans of England had left because of the antagonism.

“It’s better not to openly cheer for England up here,” Mr. Garnett said in a phone interview.

Historically, the English national team has been almost synonymous with Britain. In the past, it would have been far more common to see supporters toting memorabilia with the Union Jack, the British national flag, and singing “Rule, Britannia!” when urging on the England team. Many in the crowd at Wembley Stadium in London for the 1966 final, for example, waved Union Jacks, and the mascot for that tournament, hosted solely by England, had a Union Jack jersey.

By 1996, that had largely changed. England hosted the European Championship that year, and the flag of St. George — a red cross on a white background — had taken over almost completely from the Union Jack as the emblem used by fans of England. While supporters of the other countries in the United Kingdom — Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland — have generally used their own flags, England fans’ embrace of the red cross of St. George seemed significant. And it has, mostly, stuck.

David Goldblatt, the author of “The Game of Our Lives: The Meaning and Making of English Football,” said the change was an important show of identity. “In this World Cup, the national football team has put Englishness on full public display in a way that we have never seen with the other few civic institutions, such as the English National Opera, the Church of England and English Heritage,” he said.

The team also reflects the diversity of England, with players from all over the country, not just from the relatively wealthy south, and it includes some from immigrant backgrounds.

“We’re not a team where we just turn up and we’re waltzing around, strolling around like we’ve got an entitlement,” said Mr. Southgate, the manager, during a news conference on Saturday. “We’re lads who have come from Barnsley and Leeds and Bolton and Blackburn,” he noted, referring to several northern English cities that often complain of being neglected by politicians in London.

The England manager’s refreshing approach — a mix of calmness, humility and realism — has also resonated, and made him a social media sensation. More than a few commentators have noted the contrast between the manager and the bumptious politicians fighting with one another over Brexit.

England was infamous in an earlier era for the ugliness of soccer hooliganism, and some fans in Russia have been accused of throwing Nazi salutes and chanting racist and anti-Semitic songs. Yet analysts say this is an aberration compared to very different atmosphere surrounding this England team.

“Fans are still doing crazy things like jumping on top of police vans, but it’s a genuine craziness and excitement and not the sort of hooliganism we have witnessed in the past,” said Tom Gibbons of Teesside University, a senior lecturer in sociology and the history of sports.

In London, a crowd of more than 30,000 people is expected to watch the match in Hyde Park. Pubs across the country are certain to be overflowing.

“You should have seen this place on Saturday,” said Lauren Thornton, a bartender at the Coach and Horses, a pub in southwest London. “People were throwing their pints in the air, across the bar, over each other.”

She went on to describe scenes of fans clambering on traffic lights and on cars, saying the pub had resembled a hospital emergency room with “people coming in with bumps and scrapes and nosebleeds.”

For souvenir shops, the fervor is a boon. Hussein Rind, who runs a British memorabilia shop in West London, said he had sold a record number of St. George flags that fans can fly on their cars.

“Usually it’s all tourists visiting my shop for gifts, but now football fever has brought all the English,” he said. “I don’t usually care about football, but I love this community spirit. I will be supporting England with the rest of the country.”

A version of this article appears in print on , on Page A15 of the New York edition with the headline: An Unexpected World Cup Run Brings Cheer to a Gloomy England. Order Reprints | Today’s Paper | Subscribe

The post World Cup Brings England Together at a Time of Division appeared first on World The News.

from World The News https://ift.tt/2Jhnqvk via Online News

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cleopatrarps · 6 years