#tv stand collections Uk

[briggsnjones]

Alpha White Gloss turnable TV Stand

This TV mount can be twisted to ensure that everyone in your room has a good view of their favourite programme and it makes movie nights a pleasure.

[eringobragh420]

💜 Pairing: Gunther x f!Reader 💜 Summary: Gunther and his longtime friend finally make their fantasies a reality. 🛑 Warnings: NSFW. Wall sex, semi-public, dirty talk, fingering, super minor blood, cum 18+ 💜 Notes: Dedicated to the Gunther lovers, especially the ones who go into this not liking him and come out wondering wtf they were thinking 🤷‍♀️ 💜 Taglist: If you’d like to be added, please click here! 💜 Requested By: @eboni-napalm Thank you so much for your patience and your awesome idea! Happy Birthday!

She watched on one of many TVs backstage as Damian Priest defended his title against Gunther. Some days she couldn’t believe she and Gunther were in WWE at all, on the main roster no less, but then she saw him in the ring, and she saw exactly what everybody else saw: a superstar. Of course, she’d known how special he was for years beforehand, having come up with him in NXT UK, so it was really no surprise to see him in a match competing for the World Heavyweight Championship. And her idolization had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that she may or may not have had a crush on the man since the very first moment she’d laid eyes on him. It didn’t. Really.

The two gigantic men in the ring, each going pound for pound, exchanged chops, and she couldn’t avoid even the tiniest reaction every time Gunther was on the receiving end. These men, at least some of them, had to be masochists. She was a wrestler, yes, and there was hardly ever a contest that was pain-free, but she never went into it wanting to be hurt. When these men were chopped or suplexed or Pedigree’d, she swore she saw their eyes dazzle, some of them even smiled or laughed. And was she really thinking about whether or not Gunther was a fan of pain while standing amongst dozens of other people watching the same match?

She gasped along with everyone else when Priest rolled Gunther onto his back—I could just ride him right there … I bet he’d forget about losing—and laid over him for the pin. A collective hush fell over the group, however, upon witnessing Finn Bálor’s betrayal, which consequently kept Gunther in the match. Her body was absolutely thrumming during the next sequence, watching with rounded eyes as Priest tried twice to get at Finn before Gunther locked in the chokehold. She was the loudest one cheering when the Ring General was declared the winner, and the new World Heavyweight Champion. Smirking, she shook her head as Gunther snatched the golden title from the ref and held it in the air, and she could tell he was emotional, but he did well hiding it, playing the perfect heel to the perfect end to a kind of perfect night—at least for her, she hadn’t much interest in the Cody versus Solo match. 

She started to say goodbye to those around her, hugging a few, intricate handshakes with others, well wishes to everyone. She gathered her purse and suitcase-on-wheels, turned, and made it only a few steps before pausing. Gunther was exiting Gorilla position, blue Ring General jacket on—he really needs to wear the blue more often—gilded title adorning his waist, and he was headed right for her. How the hell long had it taken her to say goodbye? She looked behind her to see who he might actually be targeting, but everyone had dispersed. When she turned back around, Gunther was only a few feet from her, his eyes rising and falling over her thin tank top, pleated skirt, and Nike sneakers, and her brain was inundated with every memory she had of the Austrian, like she was dying and her entire life was flashing before her eyes. The crush she may or may not have had blossomed within her, growing somehow from the deep, dark, secret place she’d buried it long ago. Entombing these inappropriate and, she assumed, unrequited, feelings for a coworker had allowed her to function like a normal human, and not a lovesick schoolgirl.

“What do you think?” he asked, or shouted, slapping the title against his abs, and she almost, almost, averted her gaze to look, but she caught herself at the very last second. She focused on the blood spatter on his cheek and jaw.

Blood?

There was a sizzling in the ether, a hum almost, like the sound of current zooming through a power line, and she felt it in her very core. She could smell him now, the closer he came, and his scent had to be pheromonal, because her panties were suddenly soaked and her legs felt heavy. Her arms and hands were numb, so it was quite confusing for her to watch her arm rise of its own volition, hand reaching for Gunther, and she screamed for him to move or slap her hand away, but no sound came out and her lips never moved. Her hand kept lifting until it came in contact with a spot of blood on his chiseled jawline, and now she had sensation in her fingertips, but still no control.

“Are you okay?” she asked, absolutely no recollection of planning to say anything at all.

“You’re worried about me,” he said loudly, grinning, boasting his sexy accent. Those goddamn dimples sank into his cheeks, and his smile, even when he was being evil on the microphone, was genuine and happy, and wait just a damn minute …

Her lips pursed. “Congratulations,” she deadpanned, finally in control of her hand, which she pulled from his face. She glanced at the vermillion liquid on her thumb before idly smearing it on her light-colored tank top, treating it like any other unwanted substance. She looked back up at him, his usually bright, sparkling eyes now a blazing inferno and zeroed in on the stain on her shirt just below her breasts. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

She spun on her heels, twirled her suitcase on its wheels, and she started off in the opposite direction. He might have been just teasing, and that was the most likely scenario, but that didn’t make her feel any less embarrassed. She’d shown genuine concern for him, and he’d cracked a joke about her being worried? It didn’t matter that he was correct—he didn’t have to be a dick about it. 

Unfortunately for her, she had no idea where the exit was in this direction, and she couldn’t very well ask someone while on her angry walk-away, so she stuck her chin in the air and continued on, confidently taking a turn down the next hallway. Her pace slowed then. This concourse was dark save for the light from the corridor that T’d at the end. And she didn’t see an exit sign. 

“Shit,” she whispered. 

A barely audible thud sounded behind her, and she spun around, releasing the handle of her suitcase, instantly hoping for an employee or maybe someone who was also lost. He was mostly a silhouette, but she knew exactly who it was—she was familiar with his size and the haircut and even his squared shoulders under the Ring General jacket—but for a new reason. His scent. It was the sour aroma of sweat, the copper tinge of blood, and tiny remnants of whatever body wash he’d used recently. She inhaled as much as she could, inflating her lungs until they nearly burst, packing them full of her new favorite flavor, and she felt a little dizzy. The man was a goddamn vape pen.

She attempted to recover, “I think I made a wrong—�� 

Gunther wrapped a long, strong arm around her middle and lifted her in the air with maybe a little too much vigor—she saw the top of his head for the first time in real life before gravity snatched her and yanked her back to earth. Gunther’s arm tightened around her, halting her progress, crushing their chests together, and she intuitively wrapped her legs around his waist. She felt the outline of the World Heavyweight Championship title belt between her legs and underneath the surprisingly soft fabric of the blue jacket. She clutched at the lapels to steady herself upon landing back in his arm—because it had been so fucking easy for him to nearly launch her into space and catch her with only one damn arm.

Their eyes met, and their noses were brushing, and they were passing oxygen back and forth between them. She’d never been this close to him before, not like this, and his scent was much stronger now. Fuck, she’d waited so long for this, but here? Now? His body was firm, muscles dense, and for some reason, this Austrian Adonis was wholly enchanted by her. So yes—here. Now.

“Gunther—” she whispered, having no idea where this sentence would end up.

“You didn’t answer me,” he cut her off. She blinked at him. “I asked you what you think.” Sometimes his THs came out as Fs and it was the most endearing quirk in the world. He nodded at the title, nestled in the comforting embrace of his jacket and her thighs, and they both cast their eyes downward. She swallowed, looking at her skirt, remembered she was wearing a skirt, and also the opulent title that was only a few inches from an aching, soaking pussy.

“I’m happy for you,” she whispered, hands still fisted in his jacket.

“No,” he growled, kicking her suitcase out of his way with a blue boot. Her grip tightened and her thighs clenched as he pressed her against the nearest wall, his free hand cupping the back of her head as a shield. “I’m only gonna ask you … one more time,” he said, his eyes burning a hole through her very soul, and his hand came out from behind her to hold his finger up. “You think I don’t see the way you look at me?” he tilted his head. She gulped down absolutely nothing, and the hallway was so quiet that the action was actually audible. “So no lying,” he advised, eyebrows lifting. His face closed the space between them, and she couldn’t regulate her breathing as it came out in hot puffs of desperation. “What … do you think?”

Boy, was she done thinking. “Well …” she trailed off, fingers releasing the lapels of his jacket so she could flatten her palms on his chest. She licked her lips, massaging the hard planes of his pecs, and she pulled her bottom lip into her mouth. His eyes darted down to watch. “I think you look like a fucking champion,” she murmured. If he wanted to play a game … let’s play a game. Her thighs tightened as she locked her ankles behind him, spine straightening. Her hand slithered up his neck to his incredible jaw where she gently clutched his chin between her forefinger and thumb so she could turn his face slightly away from her, freeing the route to his ear. Smirking, she pressed her lips to his lobe, and his arm still around her middle tensed. “And I think you look like a champion I’d like to fuck,” she purred, puncuating her statement by biting the lobe and sucking it into her searing mouth.

Gunther leaned back, stealing his ear from her, and he then pressed their foreheads together. “”Yeah?” he taunted. She nodded, their noses grazing. “You wanna fuck the champion?”

“For so long,” she sighed, practically clawing at the jacket. She glanced down, their faces mashed together, a memory slapping her in the brain. She opened the garment and raked her nails down his bare chest, over the marks of Damian’s chops, and it wasn’t the hardest she could go, but his groan was primal, and she knew the pressure was just right. “You should know,” she went on, “if you’ve been watching me like you say you have.”

“Oh, I’ve been watching,” Gunther assured her. His hands were under her arms and he pressed her into the wall, locking eyes with her before he released his grip on her. She kept her shoulder blades and arms flat against the wall, back straight, legs nice and tight around Gunther’s waist, and she was perfectly stable without his assistance. He leaned back, and this new position presented him with the chance to leer at her, gaze inspecting every inch of her, and he leisurely began to lift her shirt. His brows rose and his mouth opened when he came to a barely-there built-in bra. “Look at you,” he said. “You don’t even bother, do you?” 

She regarded him with a wicked smirk, half his face a shadow, and she couldn’t fight the urge to roll her hips against him. The title didn’t feel particularly good when pressed to her pussy, but the thought of humping it, covering it with her juices, was something she never thought would turn her on. “Maybe I hoped you would be looking,” she whispered. He slid the bra, which was basically just thin fabric and elastic, torturously slowly up over her breasts where it stayed, and his eyes met hers once more.

“This is what you want?” he asked, though it sounded more like a statement. She nodded, lost in his murky eyes. “Say it,” he commanded, and there was no mistaking that tone.

She gripped his shoulders and pulled herself against him, her newly exposed nipples making contact with his jacket and his smooth chest. “I want you to fuck me, Gunther,” she told him, lips massaging his thin ones. Her eyes passed back and forth between his, and she knew he needed something else, just a little bit more. “Think you can handle that?”

He smashed her between himself and the wall, his lips finally covering hers, and the desperate moans from both their throats would have been embarrassing for them had anyone else heard them. Her hand on the back of his shaved head was an interesting level of eroticism, and he must have agreed, if his tongue in her mouth was any indication. She felt him unstrap the belt, and he returned one arm around her so he could lift her off the front of it, then he dropped it to the floor. Never once did his lips leave hers or even stop moving.

He repositioned her lower on his body this time, throwing his jacket around her legs, and she gasped, grip sliding from his shoulders back to the lapels as he ground his impressive manhood on her soaking panties. His hand slithered along her thigh, finger dipping under the side of the garment, which he then lifted away from her throbbing pussy. Her eyes were slits as his thumb slid along her dripping folds, relentlessly teasing her before it finally sank within and began massaging the slippery nub. His straining cock was still pressed against her, and if he didn’t fuck her now, she knew for sure they’d be caught. People were still passing by the end of the hallway they’d come from. Had anyone seen them enter? Had anyone seen them not leave?

“Please,” she whispered, not sure how long she would survive without his cock inside her.

“That’s what I wanna hear,” he mumbled, sucking one of her nipples into his mouth. Her back arched and she slammed her hips into his thumb. “You wanna fuck the champion, you have to beg the champion.”

“Please,” she repeated, and somewhere along the way she’d lost the upper hand. Or … had she ever really had it?

“Please what?” he pressed. “Hmm?” He was on her neck now, all teeth and tongue and lips, and her eyes rolled back. 

“Please fuck me,” she begged, hand cradling his neck. “Please?”

“Fuck,” Gunther whispered. 

There was brief movement, and suddenly, the thick head of his dick poked at her hole, and she cried out. Gunther was quick to cover her mouth with his hand, holding it there as his other hand gripped her hip, supporting her weight and sinking her down onto his cock. She continued to squeal, muffled by his hand, until he was buried to the hilt inside her, and then she was breathing in and out quickly through her nostrils. She rolled her hips, sucking him deeper, and she groaned this time. As he started to slowly fuck her, she reached up to squeeze his meaty forearm, opposite hand fisting in his jacket again. He picked up speed, rocking her body up and down on the wall, and she couldn’t believe any of this was happening. Was she dreaming? That’d be cruel.

“You’re taking me so well,” Gunther praised, and she whined, squirming in his embrace. “This pussy was made for my cock, wasn’t it?” 

She nodded, a stifled yes caged in her throat. She wouldn't argue the point even if she could. Her pussy was full, fuller than it ever had been, wetter, and she felt her orgasm building, but that couldn’t be right because no man had ever made her cum simply by penetration alone. Her entire being was vibrating with the quickness of Gunther’s pumps, still grasping his forearm and jacket, holding on for dear life and that ever elusive orgasm-that-she-wasn’t-responsible-for.

“You’re perfect,” he mumbled into her ear. She almost wilted in his possession, but if her body slacked even a little bit, Gunther’s cock would never again find that spot inside her. 

“Please,” she begged. “Please … I’m gonna cum.”

“All over my cock, dirty girl,” he panted. Had someone else called her a dirty girl, she might have laughed at them, but with Gunther’s accent and his tone and just the fucking breathlessness loaded her orgasm from 28% to 99%. “So your pussy will get even tighter,” he went on, “so you can make the champion cum.”

She screamed, a literal scream, and Gunther squeezed her mouth. She did exactly as she was told, clenching around his dick as she came for the first time by a dick, body shuddering while she rode the waves of ecstasy. She was able to experience most of it before Gunther grunted, pulling out with a nasty pop, and he set her carefully back on her feet.

“Down on your knees, dirty girl,” he said, his hand lifting from her mouth. 

She licked her lips, tasting him, and she slowly descended to her knees, which she had to spread to avoid putting any weight on the belt Gunther had discarded earlier, hands sliding down his chest and abs as she went. He jerked his glistening cock over her face, leering at her, and she grasped his thighs. Every instinct told her to stick her tongue out, and what kind of human would she be if she didn’t follow her instincts? He placed his hand on the top of her head seconds before he launched cum on her tongue and across her face, rope after rope, and it was salty and warm and her new new favorite flavor. She couldn’t read the expression on his face anymore as he used his thumb to slide all the cum from her skin into her mouth. She happily accepted all of it, sucking his thumb and cock clean for good measure. When he finished, he tucked himself back into his trunks and held his hand out. She almost placed her hand in it. Almost. At the last second, she reached between her knees for the belt and held it up for him. His chest puffed out as he accepted it from her, and she let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding when he held his other hand out for her.

“We should do that again,” Gunther said.

She grinned, her cheeks getting hot, and she pulled her top back down. “Call me when you win another championship,” she winked.

[turianhumanclient]

What I know about the situation at Zaum Studio OÜ, developers of Disco Elysium

Perhaps you've heard of the deplorable situation of Disco Elysium's fired leads, of the oust by majority shareholder and CEO, of the lawsuits and rest of the cultural association and 'old guard' still at work there, quiet and held quiet by corporate policy and perhaps embittered by the 'auteur' theory holding parasocial public.

What I am going to share with you is information that is publicly available through Estonian and United Kingdom company registers. I haven't seen any news outlet feature this information yet.

WHAT IS NEW HERE?

Ilmar Kompus, the current CEO who was installed in 2020, had actually been a shareholder all along since Zaum Studio's founding in Estonia.

Kaur Kender, the author in his own right and producer at Zaum, has founded a lot of game development companies in Estonia and United Kingdom, while Zaum worked, published and updated Disco Elysium. These apparently went nowhere, some of them are now defunct. All of them had Ilmar Kompus or some ZAUM subsidiary as shareholders, and some also shared correspondence addresses with ZAUM's UK subsidiaries.

The 'game pitch' that cost Zaum 4,8 million euros and funded Kompus' acquisition of majority share from Linnamäe, the so called Pioneer One, has been previously reported by one gaming news outlet to have come via Anu Reiman's YESSIRNOSIR Limited. I have discovered that Kaur Kender held a game company in UK called Pioneer One Ltd that was active between years 2018-2022, and it had an Estonian artist Kristiina Ago as its secretary. I cannot prove that it was this entity that sold it instead, but it is a glaring coincidence nevertheless.

Kaur Kender and later Ilmar Kompus have founded a succession of ZAUM studios (Zaum London, Zaum UK, Disco Elysium UK and now Zaum Studio Limited) which have held the main development operations in UK. Kurvits and Rostov/Taal hold minority shares in Zaum UK. The later ones are all Ilmar Kompus-held in shares. I suspect this is a method of his to sever the fired leads' means of control to the company's branches in UK.

Both the 'main line' of Zaum's UK companies and Zaum Studio OÜ back in Estonia have loaned money to the tune of millions to Newelysium and Revachol in UK (Note, Revachol OÜ in Estonia is held by ZAUM cultural association members and is not a game studio)

What does it all mean then? I am not certain. I have not practical experience in game dev industry to say whether constantly making side companies or shells is a sign of a healthy leadership.

However looking at all the shell companies made near annually, and how the successive ‘main studios’ have consolidated into Kompus’ hands, I am going to speculate a bit. This has been a long con. Whether there was going to be a product that sold well or not, Kompus, Haavel and Kender were going be the ones collecting the jackpot. There were shell companies being established even as the game was floundering after the estonians’ walkout. All the ‘artists’ had to do was just do the work and not get in the way of money.

But then ZA/UM made an award-winning darling game of the year. TV show adaptation deals. Lead developers like Kurvits and Hindpere standing at the Game Awards Show spotlight. Audience eating up all that and latching onto whatever crumb and morsel might come next.

A clean exit sale out of a modest studio became impossible. Now there were developers in the studio who knew they were worth A LOT and with shareholders’ power both in Zaum Studio OÜ and Zaum UK Ltd to hamper any sale to Tencent, Amazon or Microsoft. Now we reach the part of “toxic misogynist auteurs trying to steal the IP for themselves.” who had to be let go.

Kender's lawsuit around the turn of 2022-2023 and divestiture of his Zaum Studio OÜ shares as result muddles the water for this speculated theory even more as he still holds directorship in a number of shell companies with Kompus back in UK. There is also Dark Maths Studios that he founded this April in UK, so it remains to be seen what he'll do and if its with Kompus and Haavel or alone.

[aftercamlann]

ACBB 10th Anniversary Recs: Dave

Today's ACBB was recced by Wasp:

Title: Dave Writer: Camelittle Artist: LFB72 Ship(s): Merlin/Arthur Rating: Teen and Up Word Count: 60,354

Summary: Merlin - lover of crunchy fried snacks and secret admirer of his straight flat mate, Arthur - never expected to have a career in comedy. But after trying stand-up on a successful open mic night at university, he finds himself hooked. He and Arthur run a successful late night talk radio show for a while, but Arthur’s father intervenes. After a misunderstanding forces them into conflict, Merlin vows never to see Arthur again, to protect his own soft, pathetic, pining heart. Which would be fine, if the UK comedy circuit weren’t so small. But for some reason, they keep bumping into one another - at comedy festivals, and on radio and TV panel shows - and despite everything, the chemistry that made their radio show so popular in the distant past grows stronger than ever.

Link: FIC: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/After_Camlann_Big_Bang/works/49672912 | ART: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50242543/chapters/126907054

Why Wasp recommends this ACBB: there is romance and pining and idiots in love and standup comedy and IDIOTS and Taskmaster and seriously what more do you need?  There’s still time for you to rec an ACBB fic yourself that you feel deserves some more love. So feel free to send us your rec through our 10th Anniversary Rec form!

[denimbex1986]

'David Tennant has called for everyone to “banish the noise and banish the hate” against the trans and LGBTQ+ community.

The Doctor Who actor has proven himself a passionate LGBTQ+ ally and advocate again and again. And he did do once more at the Rolling Stone UK Awards on Thursday (23 November) night.

Speaking exclusively to Attitude on the red carpet, Tennant, who collected the TV Award on behalf of Doctor Who, spoke of why his allyship was important.

“Especially if we’re celebrating a show like Doctor Who, the Doctor has always supported the other, the unusual, the disenfranchised. That’s what that show’s about.

“It’s about someone who travels the universe in a wooden box distributing kindness, and understanding, and standing up for those who aren’t stood up for by other people and fighting the good fight.”

He then continued by saying the Doctor is someone who “understands that all living things deserve respect and that’s the message of the show.” This, he went on to say, was something humanity should take away from the show.

He also said “certain arguments” are amplified by sections of the media “which make it often feel like perhaps there’s a bigger fight.”

Tennant then maintained his belief that “most people are decent, honest, understanding people who just want to live together harmoniously.” He closed: “We just need to banish the noise and banish the hate.”

The Doctor Who star also told Attitude he was “really pleased” to have helped raise thousands for LGBTQ+ charity. He’s recently been seen wearing a trans Tardis badge inspiring others to buy the badge...'

[thecrownnet]

Equity Updates Strike Advice Due To “Panic & Confusion” Among UK Publicists Over Actors’ Press Duties

Jake Kanter, July 25, 2023

DEADLINE

[Photo: Actors Andy Serkis, David Oyelowo, Hayley Atwell, Rob Delaney, Brian Cox, Simon Pegg, Jim Carter, and Imelda Staunton, attend a rally by UK performers' group Equity, in solidarity with striking US actor collective SAG-AFTRA, in London, UK, on Friday, July 21, 2023. They hold a large purple banner that says "Equity stands in solidarity with SAG-AFTRA."]

EXCLUSIVE: British actors union Equity will today update strike guidance for publicity agents amid confusion over how stars should manage their promotional duties during the SAG-AFTRA walkout.

The union, which has said it will enthusiastically support industrial action within UK laws, is expected to update its strike FAQs after getting calls from publicists requesting clarity.

Multiple publicists have told Deadline that there is uncertainty over how they should be preparing for press campaigns over the coming months.

“Everybody’s in a state of panic and downing tools because they don’t want to put their clients in a difficult position,” said one publicist. Another added: “It’s difficult to see where actors stand and there is a lot of confusion.”

Equity General Secretary Paul W Fleming encouraged publicists to check the contracts of their clients and plan campaigns accordingly.

He said actors on a SAG-AFTRA deal are likely to be told by the U.S. union that they are forbidden from doing promotional work. Those on an Equity agreement are not on strike and should fulfill their contractual duties.

“The contract is in dispute, not the union itself,” Fleming said. “American actors are still recording TV commercials. Americans are still recording audiobooks, including for struck companies … because the agreements that they’re recording on are not subject to the dispute.”

Deadline hears that British actors have voiced reservations about doing interviews and other publicity work during the strike, even when they are on Equity deals. 

One publicist said contracts often include a vague provision for “reasonable publicity,” which could be open to interpretation in terms of the volume of promotional work an actor undertakes.

Fleming said members are welcome to contact Equity for specific advice if they are concerned that they are undermining a strike by going “above and beyond” their contractual duties.

“Do you have to carry on doing press and publicity as specified in your contract if you’re on an Equity agreement? Yes. If you’re contractually bound to do ‘reasonable press and publicity,’ what does that now mean? Well, that will depend on the circumstances,” Fleming said.

“What are you objecting to, in particular? Going on a chat show in these circumstances, for instance, maybe a more reasonable thing to object to, as opposed to having a photograph taken.”

The union would never actively advise members to renege on press duties to support the strikes because it could be seen as an inducement to take illegal industrial action.

[alifeasvivid]

Companionship, a UK/nyo!US Firefly AU; Explicit

Rating: Explicit Warnings/Tags: smut, self-inflicted intoxication, nipple piercings, virginity kink, oral sex, vaginal sex, a faulty degree of self-indulgence Summary: The unresolved sexual tension between Amelia Jones, captain of the firefly class ship Liberty, and high class registered companion, Arthur, finally breaks after an evening at a bar in the Eavesdown docks. Word count: ~8600

Important Notes: if you're not familiar with the TV show Firefly, please read:

Set a future where Earth is dead, humans terraform other planets and travel between them is fairly standard. The show revolves around the crew of Serenity, a firefly class ship, that takes odd jobs to make a living. Sometimes what they do is… a little outside of legal. It's like a sci-fi western about space pirates.

The main thing you need to know is this: registered companions are legal, legitimized sex workers. They have a school and everything and they are considered high status. The only companions ever shown are women, so I've added some extra lore and allowed for men to also take on the job.

With that, please enjoy ^-^

Arthur sits quietly at the bar, perched elegantly with one leg crossed over the other, merely observing. He sips from a glass of whiskey—not exactly the quality he was once accustomed to on Xenon, but the slight burn is pleasant enough all the same.

He hasn’t dared to drink in public in a very long time, but with the rest of the crew here, with the Captain here, he feels safe enough to have this small indulgence. His clothes—a black sleeveless top which bares his midriff, including his dangling, gold navel ring with three sparkling red garnets, accompanied by loose fitting pants and open jacket both of a rich emerald silk with gold embroidery and dark red trim—certainly make him stand out in a dive bar at the Eavesdown docks, to say nothing of the gold bracelets and chains which adorn his hands that indicate his profession, yet no one bothers him.

He smiles to himself as he watches Kiku positively trounce Greta at a game of pool, while Feliciana cheers Greta on, giving her a kiss every time she misses a shot.

Alfred is throwing darts with some other bar patrons and, despite being obviously buzzed, is doing rather well if the cash his opponents keep shoving into an empty glass while scowling is any indication.

Meanwhile, Gilbert, Matthew, and Amelia are huddled around a table and they’ve each taken a couple shots already and it’s starting to show. The trio laughs raucously at periodic intervals, but even in their collective inebriated state, each of them looks up now and then to survey and assess their surroundings and also keep eyes on the other crew members… and Arthur.

They’re quite obvious about it, as well as their myriad weapons, which is likely why no one is bothering him, not to mention the fact that his calibre shown by his particular jewelry indicates that his rates are far above what anyone in this bar could afford.

When Amelia next looks up, Arthur deliberately locks eyes with her, holding her tipsy blue gaze for too long to say it’s inadvertent, but even though her cheeks are quite pink, she’s clearly not as drunk as Gilbert and Matthew are. Of course she wants to stay alert, to protect her people if necessary.

In watching her, Arthur notices that he isn’t the only one doing so. A group of men—they seem to be other travelers—prod at one of their rather handsome compatriots with urgent whispers and covert gestures toward Amelia. Arthur notes that he is the same one Amelia had been speaking with rather amiably earlier in the evening.

Arthur seethes, but stays outwardly unfazed and sips his drink. How gallingly hypocritical of him to be so possessive of her. Not only for the fact that he is a registered companion, but she has given him no claim on her. When anyone shows interest in her, he often tries to smugly console himself that even if she took them to bed, they could never satisfy her the way he could. It’s small consolation which primarily ends up only making him yearn desperately for the opportunity.

She has never brought anyone onto the ship, though there have been a few times that she lagged behind in returning to it while Gilbert and Matthew snickered to each other over it. Arthur has no actual information on any of her lovers or if she even has any, but she must. How could she not?

When Amelia gets up to get another drink, the man follows her, sliding some cash to the barman before Amelia can and beaming winningly at her. Her face reads as surprised and of course she is. She always is whenever someone shows sexual interest in her. Arthur has never met anyone that stunningly beautiful who is simultaneously so oblivious to it.

But then… that’s part of the reason he has fallen for her so irrevocably. She’s so artless and straightforward, often more so than she should be and Arthur can’t help but find it incredibly refreshing.

She’s talking to the man, possibly even flirting though it’s difficult for Arthur to tell with her back slightly turned to him.

Deciding he would rather not subject himself to the sight, Arthur pays his tab and moves toward the door. Sod it all.

“Kiku,” he signals to the pilot. “I think I’ll return to the ship. You lot will be along soon, yes?”

Kiku nods, “Yes, within the hour. Are you alright, Arthur-san?” they ask.

Arthur nods curtly. “Yes, only a bit of unease in my stomach. Must be this very fine whiskey. I just need to have a lie-down.” When he steps outside, he takes a deep breath. The air of the docks is not pleasant, per se, but to Arthur it will always smell like freedom. The night air is cool, but his body burns, the spark lit by Amelia. Something must be done. For the sake of his sanity.

Amelia notices Arthur leaving and internally sighs with relief. He insists on wearing his fine clothes and all that gold at all times, even to a seedy dockside bar. Even she has the good sense not to wear her brown duster in certain places. Arthur should take cues from any of the crew really; for example: her well-fitted tan breeches tucked into well-worn brown leather boots and fitted dark blue shirt are much more appropriate for this setting than all that gorgeous green silk he had on.

She smiles awkwardly at the guy trying to flirt with her. He had been decent company before, but his welcome had worn thin with her well before he approached her just now. Even while a bit tipsy like she is, she knows she wants nothing to do with him. “Listen. I’m really flattered and all, but we’re leaving in no more than an hour. I’ve got cargo that needs to get where it’s going.”

The guy looks miffed. He pouts. That’s only cute when Arthur does it, she thinks, especially since he’s never aware that he’s doing it.

“C’mon. I’m sure you could talk your captain into staying ’til daybreak. He’s gotta sleep it off, anyway,” he nods in the direction of Gil and Matthew.

Amelia grits her teeth. This goddamn bastard is now about five seconds from getting his teeth knocked out. “Say again,” she prompts.

“Your captain—”

She grabs him by his shirt collar and pulls him down to glare directly in his eyes. “First of all, piss pot, I already said no. Second. I’m the captain. I say where and when we go and I say we’re leaving right now and you can go to hell. Matthew!” she calls over to her first mate, “We’re leaving, pack it in.” She shoves the guy away from her.

Matthew stands up and signals to Greta, who takes Feliciana’s hand and hurries her to the door. Kiku walks calmly over to Alfred, collects his winnings and takes him by his shirt sleeve while he gloats and waves at his opponents. Gilbert follows all of them, followed by Matthew.

“Heh. I see how it is,” the man spits bitterly. “Guess it must be pretty nice having that whore waiting for you. Is that how he pays his fare?”

Amelia doesn’t think twice before decking him. “That ain’t none of your goddamn business,” she growls. “And you gotta be some ‘specially ignorant kinda back-birth to talk about companions like that.” She storms outside, hops onto the back of the four-wheeler with the her crew, and fumes all the way back to Liberty.

The night air cools her rage, but not her desires. Take-off calms her nerves; sailing through the black is where she feels most at ease, but still leaves a smoldering want. She would never—could never make Arthur service her to pay his rent, it wouldn’t be right to do that to anyone. She doesn’t want to be his client anyhow, she wants him to want her.

—

Arthur takes a long sip from his tea as he lets the memories of evening dissipate. The door to his shuttle is securely locked and he lounges freely, barely clothed, on his bed. The drugs in the tea will kick in shortly. 

A usual, small dose of the potent aphrodisiac will render the drinker unbearably aroused and more open to suggestion; it is commonly used among companions for heightened pleasure, for clients who are for whatever reason a tad shy, and even to practice mild hypnosis. More than the usual dose will cause not only unbearable, ecstatic arousal, but also vivid fantasies bordering on hallucinations. Arthur has carefully dosed his tea with enough of the substance to reach this state.

Companions are trained to essentially “lucid dream” under its influence and Arthur intends to put that to good use.

It’s the only remedy he has at the moment for the all-consuming desire he feels for Amelia.

He can’t actually have her, by the rules he himself set down upon renting the shuttle on her firefly-class transport ship. And, his sensible side knows, those rules are best left in place.

He wants her in his bed anyway, not as a client, but as his. 

Arthur is well-suited to the work and life of a companion; from a rather early age, his blood just seemed to run hot and he applied at the Academy in hopes of learning to control his rampant passions. Academy training had quite successfully done this and he remains among the highest ranking graduates ever to pass through those hallowed halls, so to speak. It was the best decision he could have made and he enjoys his job thoroughly. He prides himself on his expertise and his ability to turn his own desires on and off at will.

Amelia has robbed him of that last point of pride. She had vexed him at first with her brash demeanor, loud voice, outspoken opinions and sense of humor that sometimes borders on crude… yet now he loves all of it. All of her. What had vexed him before now charms him in the context of her warm laugh, her starry blue eyes, and her fierce loyalty and kindness. To say nothing, of course, of her perfect breasts, slender waist and strong thighs.

He wants her more than he has ever wanted anyone.

And he cannot turn it off. And he cannot make her his. And he cannot stand the thought of her in someone else’s arms.

But he can alleviate his ache.

As the drugs take effect, his mind constructs the most wonderful fantasies…

Arthur raps his knuckles gently against the door of her bunk. He knows full well that this would better done in his bed in the shuttle, but Amelia would feel like a client there.

“Yeah?” he hears her muffled voice call up.

“It’s me,” he says. “May I come in?”

A slight pause, yes of course she would hesitate, give herself a moment to try and put up her defenses.The most basic of Arthur’s seduction skills lie in reading people and Amelia is so utterly incapable of concealing her emotions that it is painfully easy to see how badly she wants him as well. 

“Yeah,” she finally replies.

When Arthur climbs down, she is standing by her sink. Her chin-length strawberry blond hair is held back with a cloth headband so that she can wash her face. She’s wearing only an old, worn out, blue shirt and light, loose fitting pants he suspects she only just put on since they are backwards.

She pats her face dry with a towel and knocks the sink back into place with a single bump of her hip. She suspects nothing of his intentions. “What’s up?” she asks.

Arthur contemplates responding, but instead he simply closes the distance between them, places his fingers delicately along her jawline. He looks down at her intently, though she is barely shorter than he is, and kisses her, softly, just barely, but so passionately it makes his own head spin. He pulls away, hardly even lingering. It’s deliberately unsatisfying. She’s impulsive, he knows that too well, and she won’t be able to resist responding to his challenge.

And she doesn’t. Her hands leap up to cup his face and pull him into hungry kiss. Her lips are full and warm and perfect.

Arthur pushes the headband off, freeing her hair for him to run his fingers through. He quickly gains control of the kiss and backs her into the wall of her bunk. He releases her only long enough to latch his mouth to her neck. A companion should never mark anyone, but Arthur couldn’t care less at the moment and he nibbles and sucks a deep red bruise onto her skin. Everything is intuitive, based on her sighs and mewls and the way she tugs on his hair and that is more than enough. It’s everything.

“Ar-Arthur, mmm,” she moans, wrapping her leg around his waist so that his cock is pressed against her center and she gasps.

He groans, grinding against her, and pulls away to look at her, admire her with her pupils dilated and her face flushed. His thumbs caress her cheeks and he plants tiny kisses on her face and in her hair. She smells like heaven. “What do you want, Captain? You know you must tell me.”

Arthur absolutely knows what she would say in reality, she’d curse at him and tell him he knows goddamn well what she wants. But this isn’t reality and his mind wants to hear her say all her desires out loud.

She purrs when one of his hands slips under her shirt and the other into the plain cotton panties she had been trying to conceal. “God… I want you, Arthur. I want you to be mine. I want you to love me. Only me.”

Perfect. He slips one hand between her legs, savoring the intense heat and pressing one finger against her clit, rubbing in slow circles and drinking her soft cry. “And?” he prompts.

“I need you. I need you to make me come,” she practically whines as she squeezes leg tighter around his waist, encouraging him to slip his finger inside her. “I need you inside me, wanna ride your cock and—AH!—mmmmm, Arthur…”

A companion would never sate their client up against a wall like this, quickly and unceremoniously, with only their fingers. But Arthur doesn’t feel like a companion right now. For the first time in so long, he feels enslaved to his own passions; he could not stop himself from taking her even if he wanted to. He slips another finger into her, rubbing that spot and watching her intently as she gasps and clings to him. In all the years Arthur has been a companion, watching someone fall apart like this has never felt so brilliant. Gods, how he loves her.

“Oh fuck, Arthur,” she groans as she trembles through her orgasm. She clenches around his fingers and gushes into his palm as her head knocks back against the wall. “God yes…”

Arthur’s cock twitches against the fine silk of his robes. “Perfect,” he rasps, mouth suddenly parched and thirsty for her. He carefully withdraws his fingers from her over-sensitized entrance and traces them over his lips before drawing them into his mouth. “Mmmh,” he hums. She tastes divine.

Amelia makes a helpless, yet utterly sinful noise in the back of her throat. “Smug bastard,” she curses him with no malice and pushes him back onto her bed, diving after him—pausing only to remove her shirt and underwear. Her breasts are so full and perfect that there have been times in reality that he has barely restrained himself from begging her to let him touch. 

She straddles him and makes quick work of his robes. “One nice thing about these fancy threads: they’re easy to get you out of. Though that’s the point, ain’t it?” She winks, but her eyes then widen slightly once she reveals his cock. “Fuck,” she mutters appreciatively.

His own lucid fantasy goes topsy turvy for moment when she engulfs the head in her mouth. He moans when she interlaces her fingers with his and gazes up at him. How her eyes manage to convey such innocence with his cock in her mouth is beyond him.

Amelia steadily works more and more of him into her mouth, humming and moaning as she goes. She’s unpolished, unpracticed and, gods, does it feel so fucking good. She gets about halfway down before she stops, drags her lips back up and sucks on the head, tongue probing the tip as if to push inside.

Arthur moans. It’s been a long time since anyone has done this for him. “Oh Amy,” he sighs as she kisses him over and over. 

“Tastes good,” she murmurs, holding his shaft up tease his sac with her tongue.

“It’s only-ah-fair that I return the favor. Come here.” He motions to his own chest.

She slowly, almost hesitantly, moves over him until she is straddling his face. There could not be a more beautiful sight in the whole ‘verse than her glistening, swollen, pink lips just above him like this. “Please,” she begs, “Oh, Arthur—”

Then there’s a gentle knock on the door. The real door. The door to his shuttle. The tea has worn off enough that Arthur is yanked out of his dream and he groans in frustration, running a hand over his face. His body is somehow both spent and still thrumming. “One minute,” he calls out, trying to make his voice sound normal. At least he knows the drug is actually wearing off. He splashes his face with water from the basin and hopes he looks normal.

He pulls a robe on, tying it as he goes to open the door. He prays that it isn’t her on the other side, but of course, when he opens it…

Fuck.

“Hey.” 

There she is. Of course. Of course. Peering up at him from the lower step at the shuttle’s port inside the ship. Her eyes are clear now, it’s been long enough that the alcohol has run its course.

Amelia looks Arthur up and down, both concerned and intrigued by his disheveled state. She blushes slightly. His bright green eyes look wild and his hair is even more mussed than usual and though he’s obviously trying to hide it, his breathing is labored. “Uh. Are you okay?”

Arthur laughs almost hysterically. “Yes. I’m fine. I was just— Sod it all.” He runs his hand over his face again. Surely, this is another dream, somehow. “Captain. I need you to slap me. Across the face. As hard as you can.”

Amelia chuckles awkwardly. “Why? Did you do something to deserve it? Arthur, seriously, are you okay?”

That response is enough to convince him this is no longer a dream. If it had been, she would have slapped him merely because he told her to do it. “Ha. I don’t know. Possibly.” He takes a deep breath. “My apologies, Captain. I was, ah, performing a ritual and it is very… immersive. What is it you need?”

Amelia knows she had a pretty good made-up reason that she can’t remember now because he looks so sexy like that. She wants him so badly sometimes that, despite knowing how wrong it would be and that he would definitely say no, she has actually considered asking him if she can become one of his clients. She could never afford it anyway. But after that idiot in the bar earlier, she just wants to be near Arthur. “I, uh… well if you’re busy, it can wait until later.”

Arthur is just on the edge of being furious with her when he sees the raw need behind her uncharacteristic shyness; it’s too intense to ignore as he usually does and it leaves him momentarily speechless.

“Anyway,” she mumbles. “Breakfast is in about two hours.” An ache throbs in her whole body. She turns to leave, go back to her bunk so she can try alleviate it. She’s so used to seeing Arthur looking composed and regal and now to see him looking like he has just been… working… it makes her want to take a walk outside. In space. With no suit. Just to cool off… and be vaporized so that she won’t have to live knowing she can never have him.

“Captain,” Arthur follows her and snatches her hand, pulling her into him. He runs his thumb over her cheek, admiring her flushed skin and parted lips. He lightly presses a kiss to her temple. “You’re bloody terrible at concealing your emotions. Your thoughts. As much as I adore that about you,” his hand slips to the small of her back, “it drives me mad.”

Amelia gasps, frozen in place. “Wh-what?”

His fingers clasp her chin and he drinks in her every minute expression. “How am I meant to hold back from taking what I want when your desires are written all over your face?”

Amelia stands very still, stunned, though her hands grab onto his robe like he might disappear at any moment. She searches his face for some sign that he’s teasing, but all she sees are his vivid green eyes and dark brows, and a pink tinge to his fair, freckled cheeks.

There’s a glimmer of gold fire in his gaze this time that sends a shiver through her body, culminating in the curling of her toes and a deep, visceral throb between her legs.

Arthur finds her confusion to be almost adorable. She is apparently as oblivious as she has always seemed if the revelation of his feelings is truly so startling. He can feel her fingers grip more tightly to his robe and her face flushes pink, far more than what the alcohol had done. Her eyes have darkened and where his hands cup the sides of her face, he can feel her pulse racing. Holding her just like this while she looks at him like that is far better than the lucid dream she took him from. “Captain, I—”

The delicate gold chains of his bracelets tinkle in her ears. “Yes,” she says instantly. Amelia palms the back of his neck and kisses him fiercely. It’s clumsy and they don’t fit at first, until she cedes control to him gratefully, letting him ravish her lips with his, with his teeth, and claim her mouth expertly with his tongue.

Hunger consumes Arthur and he cannot taste her enough. He needs more of her. But he also needs air and so does she and they are both panting when he breaks the kiss.

Amelia looks past his shoulder to the open door of his shuttle and winces with the reality of situation asserts itself. How could she forget? “Arthur, I… I thought— You said you’d never service me or any of my crew and I… well, I can’t really aff—”

Arthur silences her with a shorter and more decisive kiss. “What I said stands. I will never service you as a companion, but if you wish it as I do, I would be your lover.”

A flood of desire rushes through Amelia’s body, followed quickly by a flash of nervousness.

Arthur catches that instant of apprehension, but doesn’t let her go. She’s strong enough to snap a man’s neck with her bare hands, if she doesn’t want to be there, she will go. Instead he says, “I’m certainly not demanding it. Simply say the word and I will forget this ever happened.” at least until I am once more alone in my bed, he thinks.

Amelia shakes her head and then leans her forehead against his chest. “I couldn’t forget, so it’s… better to stop now before… before I say somethin’ stupid.”

Arthur’s brow creases. “Such as?”

Amelia swallows back a few tears and lifts her head. “What would it mean to you?” she asks, but then continues anyway, just barreling towards sure stupidity. “Because I’m in love with you, Arthur. That probably sounds real naive to you, but it’s the truth. I’m in love with you and your job doesn’t even bother me, truly, but if I go in there with you right now, I want to still be a whole person when I come out again.”

Arthur blinks, but then pulls her body flush with his. He lightly dusts his lips against hers. “I fear you stole my heart quite some time ago, Captain, and so you are more than whole. I could never make you less so. Nor would I attempt such a thing.” He releases her just enough to pull her toward the shuttle, kissing the back of her hand. “I love every part of you. Please allow me to demonstrate.”

Amelia’s knees go wobbly and she nods dumbly and follows him. She jumps slightly when the door whooshes shut and locks behind her. It has been awhile since she has really looked at Arthur’s shuttle and how richly it is furnished, how a sweet, woody incense perfumes it. The bed is made, covered with exquisite blue, green, and gold fabrics and just looking at it makes her shiver.

Arthur notices her fixation on the bed, assuming that it makes her uncomfortable to know what he does there. This is why, in his dream, he had imagined them in her bunk. “The bedding is clean,” he quips teasingly. “Or we can go to your quarters, if you’d rather.”

Amelia bites her lip. “I’m fine here,” she grins giddily. “I told you, your job doesn’t bother me. Used to, I ain’t gonna lie, but…” she blushes bright red, “sometimes, knowing you’re in here with a client, doing… your job really, uh, gets me going, you know?”

Arthur laughs, but is very intrigued by this new information. “Does it,” he asks rhetorically. “That’s very good to know.” He takes her hands and guides her toward the bed. He holds out his own hands to her, palms down, displaying his jewelry. “These are given to, and worn by, every registered companion who has graduated from the Academy. There are very few circumstances under which it is considered acceptable to remove them.”

Amelia nods, tracing the chains on them. “I’ve seen them on other companions before.”

Arthur reaches out and tilts her face to look at him. “I would like for you to take them off.”

“Oh,” Amelia breathes. She carefully removes the bracelets, brushing her fingers over the newly exposed skin, which is fairer even than the rest of Arthur. She hands him the jewelry and he places it in an ornate box.

With his hands now bare, Arthur molds them to Amelia’s hips, but only to remove the holster that perpetually encircles them. He lets it fall to the floor with a heavy thunk. When he tugs at the hem of her shirt, he sees that nervous look on her face again and she reflexively grabs his wrists. “Amelia… what’s the matter? I shall say it again if you need me to, but we do not have to do this.”

Amelia chews on her lip. She has to tell him. “No. It’s not that. I want to. I want to so bad. But I… I never have before.”

Arthur internally laments her grammar for the thousandth time, only this time he genuinely does not understand what she said. “You never wanted to before?”

Amelia squeezes her eyes shut and takes a deep breath. “I’ve never, um, gone to bed with anyone before,” she exhales very quickly. “I mean I was a kid and then there was the war and then there’s running this goddamn ship and then I fell in love with you and didn’t want anyone else anymore so… I guess I just never got around to it.”

Some unseen force tightens pleasantly around Arthur’s heart and also his groin. He could almost laugh. All the time he spent simmering in his jealousy and now he finds out that she comes to him utterly untouched. He fervently kisses her cheek, then under her jaw, then her neck. “If you had any idea,” he mutters raggedly against her ear, “how bloody ecstatic I am to hear that, you’d think I was mad.” He bites down on her neck and nibbles and sucks a large mark onto her skin.

Amelia laughs, but it just comes out as a puff of air. “I already think you’re ‘mad.’”

Arthur kisses and admires the mark he just made. “It’s wretched of me, given the circumstances, but the thought of you with anyone else is intolerable to me.”

A noticeable shiver runs down Amelia’s spine and her knees turn to jelly again. She complies this time when Arthur removes her shirt and her bindings. 

He plants kisses over her chest and shoulders and cups her breasts in his hands, holds them as if they are fruits whose ripeness is under consideration. A proven test: when he squeezes them, she moans; they are ripe and sweet. In continuing to undress her, Arthur notices that she has rather a lot of scars. She gets injured quite regularly and she is a war veteran, but somehow he never thought they’d be so visible. On the central planets, the technology exists to completely heal wounds with no scars at all. He traces along them with his fingertips. “I bet there are stories for each one of these.”

Amelia hums. Her mind is slipping into a haze from all the pleasure of being adored. “Most of ‘em are from the war,” she says, but then points to a fresher one. It’s a healed bullet wound on her lower abdomen. “Got this one saving your sorry ass though,” she teases with a wink.

Arthur scoffs. “Bloody admirable that you can be so cavalier about it,” he drolls sarcastically. Memories of that day are painful for him even now. He presses a gentle kiss to her forehead and whispers, “I thought I’d lost you. We all thought we’d lost you.” 

Amelia caresses his cheek, her heart fluttering since he hadn’t seemed so affected at the time. “Never. You couldn’t get rid of me if you tried.”

Arthur drops to his knees before her; his hands busy themselves with her belt, trousers, and boots while his lips give his gratitude to that scar. He removes her boots along with her trousers, snaps the elastic band on her plain cotton panties and then removes those too. He places a kiss on her stomach and admires her. She is completely uncharted territory and his every brush against her skin elicits such delightful reactions.

Amelia trembles as Arthur rests his head on her hip and his breath fans over her skin. “Your turn,” she breathes, tugging pointedly on his robe.

Arthur stands, reluctant to let her go at all. Her body is so lovely, as lovely as all of her, more so for her life being etched all over it. He kisses her, gripping her waist while she unties the sash holding his robe closed. As the fabric slips from his shoulders and falls to the floor, revealing him to her entirely, Arthur feels truly naked for the first time in a long time and he relishes it.

Amelia’s eyes widen when she sees the twin gold rings, accented with bright red rubies, pierced through his nipples. She licks her lips subconsciously and slips her respective index fingers through each one, giving them an experimental tug.

Arthur grunts softly which apparently encourages her because she tugs just a little harder and twists them slightly. “Oh yes, Amy,” he moans, “yes yes, harder.”

Amelia stalls at the nickname, but only because it surprises her how much she likes it. She watches his face intently as she does as he asked: pulls the rings harder and twists them further.

Arthur’s eyes roll back and he bites his lip. “Ahhh yes, love, that’s bloody brilliant.”

Amelia notices his hips jerk toward her and she feels his erection brush against her stomach. Her breath catches and she steadies herself. Her hands glide appreciatively over his chest, occasionally flicking the rings, but she avoids looking down at first. She had known he would be beautiful, as all companions are, but this is a little ridiculous, really. His light freckles dust his skin down to his shoulders and along his arms and the rest of him is flawless and fair. His body is toned, muscles well-defined with just a bit of cushion, all evidence of the strength and style with which she has seen him fight. After admiring him for a moment, she finally dares to look down.

Arthur follows her gaze and it’s rather endearing really, how she seems to need to prepare herself to look at all of him. Her hands on him are both reverent and curious. It is so deeply gratifying how she gasps and her eyes widen when she finally drops her gaze below his waist, so gratifying that he moans low and loud in the back of his throat, though her reaction does beg the question, “Have you never seen a naked man before?”

Amelia squirms, both from the question and from how pretty his cock is, long and so thick and she can’t help but run her finger over it, from base to tip, feeling it twitch and harden further. Without looking up at him, she answers quietly, “I have… there’s no time for modesty in war and all, but… no, not in a situation like this.”

Arthur’s grip tightens involuntarily on her hips. “Fuck,” he mutters emphatically, mostly to himself. He draws them against his and groans at how they fit together almost exactly just like this. He kisses her neck and nips at the shell of her ear. “I’m going to ruin you,” he promises.

Amelia’s heart pounds in her brain as she melts in his arms. “As if ya haven’t already,” she whispers breathlessly, head spinning as his cock presses between her thighs. 

Arthur sits on the end of the bed, feet still on the floor. He nudges one knee between her legs, just to keep them apart, as she stands in front of him. He presses his lips to the slight swell of her stomach just below her navel and caresses her thighs, tickles them really judging by how she squirms, moving ever inward. Upward. Until his elegant fingers are ever so lightly brushing her lips.

Amelia whimpers and braces herself by gripping his shoulders. “Arthur…”

“You’re shaking,” he says, letting his other hand rests gently on her waist. “I’ve hardly touched you. I wager you’re already wet for me as well, hmm?” He dips one finger in further and is rewarded with slick, silky heat which spills over now and he uses his fingers to coat her with it.

“Please, Arthur!” she begs, clenching her hands tighter on his shoulders. Her legs threaten to collapse. His touch is so different, so much better than touching herself. 

Withdrawing his hand, Arthur licks his finger and moans. She tastes absolutely divine and it makes him crave more of her. He cups his palm over her mound and presses that same finger inside her.

“Ahh!” Amelia screams, nearly doubling over. She sobs as her fingers thread into his hair. 

“You’re so sensitive,” Arthur murmurs teasingly, but he couldn’t be more pleased about it. He inserts another finger just to hear her cry out again and she doesn’t disappoint. She’s so tight and his cock twitches at the mere thought of her wet heat wrapped around him, the thought of her coming undone with his cock inside her.

Amelia’s moans and sighs and whines as his fingers thrust into and scissor her open. She feels so full just from that, but then he removes them again and pulls her into his lap.

Arthur wraps his arms around her. The new angle has her breasts directly in front of him and he wastes no time in pinching her nipples, twisting them and making her cry out, the same as she had done for him. When he can’t resist any longer, he nips one with his teeth before wrapping his lips around it and sucking fervently.

“Fuck!, fuck, Arthur oh~” She holds the back of his head with both hands. “Please, don’t stop, don’t—ah!”

After creating several deep red marks, Arthur switches to give her other breast the same treatment, only this time, he simultaneously slips his hand between her legs again. If he hadn’t believed her before, he certainly knows now that she is a virgin. He has the absolute joy of being her first. If he has any say in the matter, he’ll be her only.

Amelia can’t think straight. Pleasure slowly coils tighter and tighter inside her and the spring is set to snap, but the second before it does, Arthur draws away, taking the pleasure and Amelia’s breath with him. “You! You goddamn—! Agh!” She slaps her hand over her mouth, abashed, but the sudden deprivation is maddening and the smirk on his face is infuriating—softened only by enamored look in his eyes.

Arthur laughs and falls back onto the mattress, leaning up on his elbows. “Don’t worry, Captain, I have very little intention of denying you. Now come here.” She moves to lie on top of him and he shakes his head. “No, love. Put your knees on either side of my head.”

She blushes brightly when she realizes what he intends to do and a thrill jolts through her and if not for her frustration, she might have protested. Instead, she crawls up the mattress next to him, kisses his lips once and then does as he instructed. The vulnerable position leaves her wobbly until Arthur’s warm, wide hands begin massaging her thighs. 

Arthur can’t help that he practically salivates. The way she trembles above him, her musky scent and the wet sheen on her pretty, pink lips all turn his hunger ravenous. Here is yet another thing which pales his dream by comparison, especially knowing that he is the only one besides herself and perhaps a doctor to ever see this part of her. “You are sublime,” he hums against her silken center. “A little lower though, please, love.” He keeps a firm grip on her thighs as she eases closer. “That’s it… mmm, just like that.” Arthur nuzzles his nose against her, randomly darting his tongue out.

Amelia yelps and bends forward almost involuntarily, bracing herself against the headboard of the bed. “Ahh! Arthur! Ar— oh fuck!”

Arthur smirks and his cock twitches at hearing her call his name like that. He massages her with his tongue and runs it over her clit. It’s his first real taste of her and he is immediately addicted. 

“Ar—ah~ Arth—ohh,” Amelia babbles. She can’t even pick out individual sensations as Arthur licks and sucks on her. The most she can discern are his hands squeezing harder on her thighs and the soft, delighted moans that get pressed against her center. Other than that, his ministrations are just a blur of pleasure that leave her shaking and gripping the headboard for dear life. “Ple—plea… ahhh fuck!”

Arthur mentally smirks as her hips rock minutely back and forth, she’s most likely not even aware of what she’s doing and he certainly isn’t about to stop her. Her pussy becomes increasingly wet until his nose and chin are as coated as she is. The throb in his cock is proportionally increasingly difficult to ignore and Arthur focuses his attention on her clit until all her muscles tighten and her thighs threaten to crush his skull, though he remains undeterred.

Amelia cries and whimpers and sobs broken syllables of Arthur’s name as she comes. Nothing she has ever done to herself has made her feel like this. When the ecstasy begins to subside, it leaves her shaking and she just barely manages not to collapse on Arthur, instead falling to the bed on her back next to him.

Arthur pants as heavily as she does when she moves off of him. Not from lack of air, but from the effort it took not to climax right along with her though he hadn’t even touched himself. He moves to lie beside her on his side. He throws his leg over hers, the one nearest to him. This presses his cock against her hip and he rocks against her the way she had against his mouth. He trails his fingertips over her flushed skin, kissing her shoulder. He cannot recall ever seeing her look this… happy. It makes his heart swell. “Liked that, did you?”

Amelia takes a deep breath only to make an affirmative little growl, vaguely nodding her head. She shivers from him grinding against her. As good as she feels, she is far from sated and her body squeezes tight around an emptiness that had only been theoretical before now: an emptiness that Arthur is mere inches from filling. But also… “Give me a minute, I’ll return the favor… although I ain’t promisin’ to be any good at it.” She still wants to try.

Arthur groans at the idea. If he lets her, it will be the end of him… at least for the time being. “No,” he murmurs, moving over her. He spreads her legs apart, rubs his palm just below her navel. He dips down to kiss her, letting her taste herself on him and with well-practiced ease, he opens a small pot on the bedside table. He scoops some of the clear gel inside onto his fingers and coats his cock with it—all without breaking the kiss. 

Amelia gasps when his lips smudge hot against her neck and something cool presses against her pussy. “Arthur~” His fingers slip easily inside of her and it’s not enough. Not nearly. “Please. Please, I need—”

“I know,” he rasps, lining himself up to her. He teases her with just the head of his cock. “I do too.” As hard as it is, he reminds himself to be gentle, to move slowly. He draws back and scissors his fingers inside her, stretching her as much as he can. “It will likely hurt,” he warns.

Amelia stares right at him, though she knows her face is bright red. “Not… too much I think. Feliciana helped me find this… well… it’s a thing. And. Ya know. It’s not as big as you are, but…”

Arthur’s brain latches onto the thought of her in her bunk, fucking herself with a toy, probably thinking about him and he kisses her fiercely, if only to make her stop talking about it. In that same moment, he sheathes himself all the way inside her. The noise—somewhere between a grunt and a cry—that bursts out of him forces him to break the kiss. He holds himself as still as possible over her, watching her face intently. 

Amelia breathes, makes herself relax. It does hurt, but it’s not exactly unpleasant, especially with that emptiness now completely filled. Her body responds to him instinctively, adjusting, opening for him, getting wetter than she has ever been before. She looks down, smiling giddily and then back up at him. His gaze is dark and hungry and makes her walls flutter around him.

“Fuck,” he breathes. He won’t be able to hold still any longer and then, gods help him, she wiggles her hips. As if instantly forgetting every lesson he learned at the Academy, he begins moving inside her unceremoniously and every inch of her around him is his whole world and he fits inside her perfectly. “Amy, oh love, yes,” he moans, managing to keep his pace slow, just to feel her.

Whatever pain there had been dissipates as Arthur moves. She chokes on everything she tries to say, particularly when he calls her like that; he sounds so reverent. She wraps her arms and legs around him, sighing and mewling as he thrusts harder. Then he strikes her in just the right place, that spot she’d never quite been able to reach on her own. She screams in pleasure and clings tight to Arthur like she’ll drown in that pleasure if she doesn’t hold onto him. “Ar—oh ple—Arth—ah, there, there oh yes,” she babbles.

Pride, triumph really, surges in his chest; no one else could ever make her feel like this, could strike her again and again and again until she’s almost in tears from ecstasy. And he’ll see it to it that no one else will even have the chance to try. He focuses on her pleasure because if he doesn’t, the pulsating squeeze of her body around his cock would be too much, even for an experienced companion like him. It pays off when her body tenses around him and her back bows, arching herself into him. “Yes, love. Come on my cock, ah gods, yes that’s it. Let me feel you.”

Amelia cries, though no sound comes out. She desperately bucks against him as her orgasm takes her under and then blasts her into stars. It has never felt like this before and now she’ll never be able to live without it. She’ll never be able to live without Arthur.

Arthur leans down to kiss her neck, though it’s more a smudging of his lips against her skin, up to bite her earlobe and purr against the shell of her ear, “Good girl.” He has managed to breathe enough to regain some control over himself. He continues rocking into her, slowly, but driving, intent on making her do that again. He presses himself to her so that the cool gold rings adoring his nipples rub against hers. “Good girl. Will you come for me again?”

Amelia gasps at the slight tugging motion, head swimming in bliss. She would have kicked his ass from here to Boros any other time for calling her that, but in this moment, it only has the tension coiling in her belly once again and it feels too good for her to even wonder how it’s possible. Arthur is just making her do it—hitting that spot with deadly accuracy. It’s mere seconds before she’s sobbing, the tension snapping and taking her under once more. She only drowns this time, but it’s still bliss, absolute bliss.

“Oh Amy,” Arthur praises, “my good girl.” He wants to make her come over and over and it’s clear that her body might be capable of that, but dear gods, he’s on the verge of losing it again.

Her chest heaves as the tension washes away and she looks up at Arthur’s flushed face, it’s clear he’s only hanging on by a thread. His skin is hot and sticky as though he’s going to melt into her; she wants that. She reaches up and brushes her hands over his face, runs her fingers through his hair. “Your turn,” she says on a happy sigh. “Wanna feel you too.”

Arthur pushes himself up, holding his arms straight with his hands on either side of her head to give him leverage to pound her. “Ah~ Amy. Love. Blood hell.” Looking down at her pretty blue eyes, mussed golden hair, flushed breasts heaving… it’s like a dream only a million times more wondrous.

Amelia briefly closes her eyes, savoring every inch of him and before she knows it, she reaches yet another climax, this one far more gentle than the others. It leaves her rapturous enough to let him completely have his way with her. She bites her lip coyly at him and then drops her gaze to his chest where those pretty gold rings dangle. She hooks a finger into each one and pulls. 

Arthur’s rhythm stutters, stalls. “More,” he begs, “harder. Harder. Please.”

She pulls harder, twists them nearly one hundred and eighty degrees and grins as he shudders and bows his head, his cock thrusting harder and faster into her. It must be an accomplishment, right? to turn a companion into a desperate mess. She twists the rings back the other way. She releases one and leans up as best she can, grabbing the ring between her teeth and then sucking on it along with his nipple. She swirls her tongue over the metal and the faceted stones set in it.

It’s finally too much. Arthur peaks, higher than he can ever remember. Her legs wrap around his waist, holding him fast, as her mouth and fingers switch sides. “Amy. Yes, ah, just like that, yes, yes, so good.” He spills inside her, fills her with cum. Feeling her orgasm on his cock was bloody fucking brilliant, the most amazing thing he has ever felt, but releasing inside her is a damn close second.

“Mmmm,” Amelia tosses her head back and moans in ecstasy as he fills her, hot and wet. She caresses him softly with her hands smoothing over his tense back, spreading her legs further at her hips, digging her heels into his back to keep him from slipping out. 

Arthur finally stills, a few last shudders running down his spine and through his cock and he collapses onto her, his face cushioned by her lovely breasts. He only stays there a moment, before lying next to her and pulling her against his side.

Despite being almost painfully sensitized, Amelia slips her fingers between her legs, just wanting to feel him still inside her. No one had ever told her, warned her, that sex could feel so good. But if they had, she might not have waited for Arthur and he seems to be so pleased that she did.

Arthur hums happily and watches her play with herself, having a fair idea of what she’s doing. It makes his spent cock twitch futilely. “Alright there, love?” he asks, still breathless.

Amelia presses her legs together and squirms. “Mmhmm. Feel good all over. Inside even.”

“You have no pain, then?” 

“None. I’ll say you know your trade quite well.”

Arthur chuckles and kisses her. “I’m not your companion, Amy. I have my skills, but that was… I promise you, that was not my trade. That was my body responding to your body, my heart speaking to your heart.” He nuzzles his nose in her hair.

Amelia drapes her arm over him and sighs giddily. “I love you too,” she murmurs. 

Arthur pulls her tight to him. “Say you’ll be mine,” he begs. “Even if I’ve no right to ask. Say you’ll have no one else.”

Amelia melts. “It’s already been so,” she confesses. “Don’t see how it could ever be otherwise.”

An urgent desire in Arthur’s blood relaxes into a sweet certainty and he gently pets any part of her he can reach.

“Oh god,” she laughs, “We’re gonna have to tell everyone.”

Arthur shakes his head, chortling. “I promise you, everyone will be relieved. Except for Alfred. That poor lad is too dim to even notice how heavy the tension between us has been.”

Amelia pouts and then sighs. “Yeah, you’re probably right and I’ll be the first to admit I ain’t all that subtle.”

“Yes, but I rather adore that about you.”

“Yeah? What else do you adore about me?”

Arthur pushes her onto her back to lean over her. “Oh Amy. My love. It will be far more efficient to show you… again,” he brings up her hand to kiss it, “and again,” he moves to kiss her neck, “and again,” and seals it with a kiss to her lips. 

[shilohsylvanian]

Been a while since I’ve done a little info dump!

Midnight Cats!

These cuties are still fairly new to the Sylvanian universe! They released in Japan in 2020 and US/UK in 2021. 

Family Members:

  The father,

James

, performs magic.

mother

Allison

can tell fortunes

Girl

Chantelle

loves to help everyone.

Reggie

is a free-spirited baby.

baby

Gloria

, standing baby in red from spooky surprise house set.

Sets include:

 2021 Family of 4 - mom, dad, sister, and newborn baby.

2021 Spooky Surprise House - Midnight standing baby in red named Gloria. Set features a pastel purple haunted house with a tv, ghost shaped couch, flocked ghost friend, a ghost costume that fits Gloria, and a ghost elevator.

2021 Magical Baby Blind Bag featuring Gloria and Reggie in purple witch costumes. 2021 Ibaraido Park in Japan Exclusive standing baby in a pink/purple star outfit. Unsure if they’re 2 different outfits or just slightly different coloring on the photo. Found them listed in KobeeJapan’s shop website. 2021 Fluffy Dream Lottery Prize sister in a pastel white and purple dress with a star bead on a pink bow. 2022 Twinkle Collection Lottery Prize (August), blind bag featuring sea creatures. Gloria is wearing a star fish inspired outfit I think? lol

Fun Facts:

~The father's hat can be used as a baby sling since Reggie is triplet sized and can fit inside! Though it’s been noted Reggie’s head is a tiny bit bigger than most of the triplets from various families.~~To tell them apart from the Tuxedo cat boys, check the inside of the ears! Midnights have pink, tuxedos have white.~

[jbaileyfansite]

Interview with Glamour Magazine UK (2020)

“Nothing says sex more than a montage,” Jonathan Bailey the new leading man on the costume drama scene jokes. We are approx. five minutes into our interview, and we have already covered the delights of mince pies, stilton and Nando’s but our attention has turned to the racy romance in Netflix’s new TV show, Bridgerton and its sex scenes.

Bridgerton, Shonda Rhimes’ (the producer behind Scandal and Grey's Anatomy) first foray into costume drama, is set in London during the Regency era and follows the trials and tribulations of the marriage market. Johnathan plays the troubled Anthony who after the death of his father is forced to assume the role of head of the Bridgerton family that contains eight close knit siblings of which Daphne - played by GLAMOUR UK cover star, Phoebe Dynevor - becomes the most celebrated catch on the scene. The resulting ‘romance’ will have your grandmother clutching her pearls, let’s just say that.

It’s certainly a career making role for Jonathan, who previously appeared in Broadchurch and Doctor Who, as well as sweeping a Laurence Olivier Award win for Best Actor in a Supporting Role in a Musical for his portrayal of Jamie in the 2018 West End revival of Company.

As Jonathan prepares to hit the big time – by appearing bottom first on Netflix - he talks how life is just like a boogie board - you just have to ride those waves - when it comes to dealing with your mental health and self-esteem… sounds poetic, no?

What do you think is so game changing about the way Bridgerton approaches sex and relationships?

I think romance as a genre exists on a beach holiday with a glass of rosé and it hasn't been given the respect that I think Shondaland and Netflix are now giving it on this wider platform. Inherently romance is about identity and about basic human interaction and sex is a massive part of that. With Bridgerton, you're following eight siblings, all with different wants and they'll meet people along the way, and they'll interact differently. It shows how you can exercise respect, have sex in different ways and how sex changes through relationships as they change. With the romance in this - with the amazing Sabrina Bartlett (who plays Anthony’s love interest)- one of the things that we talked about a lot was how power through sex can change. With Phoebe's character, I think the most extraordinary thing is about conversation and about how important it is for parents to talk to their children about sex so that they don't go into these situations which can be incredibly vulnerable.

I think it is a game changer. It's so important to see everything through every gaze and the female gaze in terms of sex is not something we have seen much of. Let's reassert that balance! Ultimately, we're telling it at a time where it's incredibly safe to do so because of the post #metoo era as there's intimacy coordination and because there's now a safety and there's an understanding you can tell a story through sex. Whereas before, I think it was just a white-knuckle ride, you had to just get through it, and it would be the day on the schedule that you'd be slightly terrified of.

It’s actually so shocking that we still talk about sex in 2020 and get really bashful about it…

No, I know! I was speaking to a friend the other day about sex in TV and film and we worked out it's more awkward to watch it on your own. Somehow it makes it better when you're watching it with a friend or you're in a group or you're in the cinema, because then at least it's a collective experience. I think there's an inherent curiosity about sexuality because it's linked to tribalism and knowing where you stand with people and how you interact. That's why it's always exciting. I think with period dramas - which is genre that I love - we always know that there'll be an unbuttoning of the corset and maybe a kiss at the end with a firework. But what better way to flip that genre like Shonda Rhimes has done. I think with Anthony you see his bottom first and then it pans up. There's no better way to say, ‘we see the genre and we raise you!’ Bottoms up!

For the role you worked out with a personal trainer didn’t you…

Yeah, I did. I just finished Company in the West End and then I just went on a really delicious traveling escapade, which involved just enjoying all the delicacies that I could find. When you're getting your kit off, you just want to feel confident. I also think getting into the discipline of exercise really helps when you have a long grueling schedule so exercising and getting ready for a role is more of a mental thing as well as a literal physical thing.

Having to get your body out there on screen is quite a conscious process. How does that affect your own relationship with your own body image, would you say?

Once upon a time there would always be a caveat with an audition saying there'll be nudity and you have to be okay with that. That would always sort of send a tremor up your spine, but I think actually everything I've done involves me getting my bum out, weirdly! It's something that I've become used to, but you've just got to be really careful that you're doing it for the right reasons. Of course, it does bleed into your everyday life and when you're trying to sustain something for nine months, you go through different barriers in terms of what is healthy and what isn't.

There's an element of control that comes with acting which you've just got to be really mindful of. When you start trying to control how you want to be seen or how you see yourself or how you feel on a certain day, you can get into habits. If you're self-aware enough, you can identify them as they're coming in and then continue. I can see how you can get into unhealthy thought patterns when it comes to body image, but that's why it has to be a constant conversation.

You play a new kind of costume drama leading man as he is an anti-hero is many ways isn’t he?

There's a real obsession around the ‘Darcy’ figures in literary history. Here you meet someone who is so vulnerable, susceptible to other people's opinions and society's opinions change his value system. The idea of masculinity is very important in Bridgerton, I really thought, ‘God, if you were a therapist, and you could time travel, you'd want to go to the Bridgerton’s straight away and it down with them because you'd make a fortune.’ They have literally just lost their father and Anthony becomes a viscount and head of the family within one night. This is the patriarchal system, that’s how that worked, and that has completely limited and shattered female existence. There is also a very modern sensibility of mental health in men. Hopefully he's not just a baddie and there's something quite human going on.

There are redeeming features…

Yeah, like his hair or mutton chops. I could write a thesis on how having facial hair like that can augment your sense of self within your social circles. Suddenly people are like, ‘Oh my God, are you in a band? Are you from Camden?’ It just changes the shape of everyone's face and makes it sharp.

The sideburns are like 19th century contouring!

Exactly! Your cheekbones are on fleek.

Bridgerton brings up how some men really do struggle behind the very public roles that they play. How do you look after your own mental wellbeing and what societal pressures that have put pressure on your mental health?

That's a really good question. I think there's just incredible amounts of labeling generally and as woman, as a man, as a gay man, as a mother, as a father, there's just a sense that there's opinions everywhere. And at this moment in time, that can come straight to your phone, but I know what the ‘balm’ is and for me it is having friends that you nurture you through and keeping transparency and openness. That’s not always easy and that requires work but when you get there and if you feel confident enough to be able to say how you're feeling moment to moment, you get a greater sense of your own identity.

If you do talk, sometimes you surprise yourself by how you're framing things in words, and it's completely different to how you think. My experience of any moments of real fear or trauma in certain ways is that you realize that other people have been through it. That's the power of storytelling as well as conversation. I am so lucky, and I escaped the Instagram teenage years!

I mean, MSN messenger was bad enough!

Yeah. I know – BRB and the wobbly nudge! I hated being nudged and I still hate being nudged. Who knows how self-image and self-esteem is really going to be affected going forward?

Existing authentically is the hardest battle of all really, isn't it?

Yeah! It's ebb and flow. I think it's like when you are in the sea, you've got your boogie board, if you're lucky you've got a wetsuit, and the waves are going to come, and you don't know how you're going to surf them. But as long as you know that that boogie board is yours and your pals are also down the road in the same sea then you're going to be all right because you know you're all experiencing similar waves and similar tides as them God, that was a real strong image, wasn't it?

‘Life is a boogie board,’ is truly a great way to look at life!

It’s a new mantra!

Source

[briggsnjones]

Alistair White Oak TV Stand

Any television of any size and up to 55 kg can be supported by this TV stand. The greatest distance between bracket holes on the back of your TV for it to fit is 55 cm.

[hussyknee]

Arundati Roy writing in The Guardian against the Afghanistan War on October 2001

“Brutality smeared in peanut butter”

Why America must stop the war now.

By Arundhati Roy

Tue 23 Oct 2001 • 00.57 • BST •

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

As darkness deepened over Afghanistan on Sunday October 7 2001, the US Government, backed by the International Coalition Against Terror (the new, amenable surrogate for the United Nations), launched air strikes against Afghanistan. TV channels lingered on computer-animated images of cruise missiles, stealth bombers, tomahawks, "bunker-busting" missiles and Mark 82 high drag bombs. All over the world, little boys watched goggle-eyed and stopped clamouring for new video games.

The UN, reduced now to an ineffective acronym, wasn't even asked to mandate the air strikes. (As Madeleine Albright once said, "We will behave multilaterally when we can, and unilaterally when we must.") The "evidence" against the terrorists was shared amongst friends in the "coalition".

After conferring, they announced that it didn¹t matter whether or not the "evidence" would stand up in a court of law. Thus, in an instant, were centuries of jurisprudence carelessly trashed.

Nothing can excuse or justify an act of terrorism, whether it is committed by religious fundamentalists, private militia, people's resistance movements – or whether it's dressed up as a war of retribution by a recognised government. The bombing of Afghanistan is not revenge for New York and Washington. It is yet another act of terror against the people of the world.

Each innocent person that is killed must be added to, not set off against, the grisly toll of civilians who died in New York and Washington.

People rarely win wars, governments rarely lose them. People get killed.

Governments moult and regroup, hydra-headed. They use flags first to shrink-wrap people's minds and smother thought, and then as ceremonial shrouds to bury their willing dead. On both sides, in Afghanistan as well as America, civilians are now hostage to the actions of their own governments.

Unknowingly, ordinary people in both countries share a common bond - they have to live with the phenomenon of blind, unpredictable terror. Each batch of bombs that is dropped on Afghanistan is matched by a corresponding escalation of mass hysteria in America about anthrax, more hijackings and other terrorist acts.

There is no easy way out of the spiralling morass of terror and brutality that confronts the world today. It is time now for the human race to hold still, to delve into its wells of collective wisdom, both ancient and modern. What happened on September 11 changed the world forever.

Freedom, progress, wealth, technology, war – these words have taken on new meaning.

Governments have to acknowledge this transformation, and approach their new tasks with a modicum of honesty and humility. Unfortunately, up to now, there has been no sign of any introspection from the leaders of the International Coalition. Or the Taliban.

When he announced the air strikes, President George Bush said: "We're a peaceful nation." America¹s favourite ambassador, Tony Blair, (who also holds the portfolio of prime minister of the UK), echoed him: "We're a peaceful people."

So now we know. Pigs are horses. Girls are boys. War is peace.

Speaking at the FBI Headquarters a few days later, President Bush said: "This is our calling. This is the calling of the United States of America. The most free nation in the world. A nation built on fundamental values that reject hate, reject violence, rejects murderers and rejects evil. We will not tire."

Here is a list of the countries that America has been at war with – and bombed – since the Second World War: China (1945-46, 1950-53), Korea (1950-53), Guatemala (1954, 1967-69), Indonesia (1958), Cuba (1959-60), the Belgian Congo (1964), Peru (1965), Laos (1964-73), Vietnam (1961-73), Cambodia (1969-70), Grenada (1983), Libya (1986), El Salvador (1980s), Nicaragua (1980s), Panama (1989), Iraq (1991-99), Bosnia (1995), Sudan (1998), Yugoslavia (1999). And now Afghanistan.

Certainly it does not tire – this, the most free nation in the world.

What freedoms does it uphold? Within its borders, the freedoms of speech, religion, thought; of artistic expression, food habits, sexual preferences (well, to some extent) and many other exemplary, wonderful things.

Outside its borders, the freedom to dominate, humiliate and subjugate ­ usually in the service of America¹s real religion, the "free market". So when the US Government christens a war "Operation Infinite Justice", or "Operation Enduring Freedom", we in the Third World feel more than a tremor of fear.

Because we know that Infinite Justice for some means Infinite Injustice for others. And Enduring Freedom for some means Enduring Subjugation for others.

The International Coalition Against Terror is a largely cabal of the richest countries in the world. Between them, they manufacture and sell almost all of the world's weapons, they possess the largest stockpile of weapons of mass destruction – chemical, biological and nuclear. They have fought the most wars, account for most of the genocide, subjection, ethnic cleansing and human rights violations in modern history, and have sponsored, armed and financed untold numbers of dictators and despots. Between them, they have worshipped, almost deified, the cult of violence and war. For all its appalling sins, the Taliban just isn't in the same league.

The Taliban was compounded in the crumbling crucible of rubble, heroin and landmines in the backwash of the Cold War. Its oldest leaders are in their early 40s. Many of them are disfigured and handicapped, missing an eye, an arm or a leg. They grew up in a society scarred and devastated by war.

Between the Soviet Union and America, over 20 years, about $45bn (£30bn) worth of arms and ammunition was poured into Afghanistan. The latest weaponry was the only shard of modernity to intrude upon a thoroughly medieval society.

Young boys ­many of them orphans – who grew up in those times, had guns for toys, never knew the security and comfort of family life, never experienced the company of women. Now, as adults and rulers, the Taliban beat, stone, rape and brutalise women, they don't seem to know what else to do with them.

Years of war has stripped them of gentleness, inured them to kindness and human compassion. Now they've turned their monstrosity on their own people.

They dance to the percussive rhythms of bombs raining down around them.

With all due respect to President Bush, the people of the world do not have to choose between the Taliban and the US Government. All the beauty of human civilisation – our art, our music, our literature – lies beyond these two fundamentalist, ideological poles. There is as little chance that the people of the world can all become middle-class consumers as there is that they will all embrace any one particular religion. The issue is not about good vs evil or Islam vs Christianity as much as it is about space. About how to accommodate diversity, how to contain the impulse towards hegemony ­ every kind of hegemony, economic, military, linguistic, religious and cultural.

Any ecologist will tell you how dangerous and fragile a monoculture is. A hegemonic world is like having a government without a healthy opposition. It becomes a kind of dictatorship. It¹s like putting a plastic bag over the world, and preventing it from breathing. Eventually, it will be torn open.

One and a half million Afghan people lost their lives in the 20 years of conflict that preceded this new war. Afghanistan was reduced to rubble, and now, the rubble is being pounded into finer dust. By the second day of the air strikes, US pilots were returning to their bases without dropping their assigned payload of bombs. As one pilot put it, Afghanistan is "not a target-rich environment". At a press briefing at the Pentagon, Donald Rumsfeld, the US Defence Secretary, was asked if America had run out of targets.

"First we're going to re-hit targets," he said, "and second, we're not running out of targets, Afghanistan is..." This was greeted with gales of laughter in the briefing room.

By the third day of the strikes, the US Defence Department boasted that it had "achieved air supremacy over Afghanistan" (Did they mean that they had destroyed both, or maybe all 16, of Afghanistan's planes?)

On the ground in Afghanistan, the Northern Alliance – the Taliban's old enemy, and therefore the international coalition's newest friend – is making headway in its push to capture Kabul. (For the archives, let it be said that the Northern Alliance's track record is not very different from the Taliban's. But for now, because it's inconvenient, that little detail is being glossed over.) The visible, moderate, "acceptable" leader of the alliance, Ahmed Shah Masud, was killed in a suicide-bomb attack early in September. The rest of the Northern Alliance is a brittle confederation of brutal warlords, ex-communists and unbending clerics. It is a disparate group divided along ethnic lines, some of whom have tasted power in Afghanistan in the past.

Until the US air strikes, the Northern Alliance controlled about 5% of the geographical area of Afghanistan. Now, with the coalition's help and "air cover", it is poised to topple the Taliban. Meanwhile, Taliban soldiers, sensing imminent defeat, have begun to defect to the alliance. So the fighting forces are busy switching sides and changing uniforms. But in an enterprise as cynical as this one, it seems to matter hardly at all.

Love is hate, north is south, peace is war.

Among the global powers, there is talk of "putting in a representative government". Or, on the other hand, of "restoring" the kingdom to Afghanistan's 89-year old former king Zahir Shah, who has lived in exile in Rome since 1973. That's the way the game goes – support Saddam Hussein, then "take him out"; finance the Mojahedin, then bomb them to smithereens; put in Zahir Shah and see if he's going to be a good boy. (Is it possible to "put in" a representative government? Can you place an order for democracy – with extra cheese and jalapeno peppers?)

Reports have begun to trickle in about civilian casualties, about cities emptying out as Afghan civilians flock to the borders which have been closed. Main arterial roads have been blown up or sealed off. Those who have experience of working in Afghanistan say that by early November, food convoys will not be able to reach the millions of Afghans (7.5m, according to the UN) who run the very real risk of starving to death during the course of this winter. They say that in the days that are left before winter sets in, there can either be a war, or an attempt to reach food to the hungry. Not both.

As a gesture of humanitarian support, the US Government air-dropped 37,000 packets of emergency rations into Afghanistan. It says it plans to drop a total of 500,000 packets. That will still only add up to a single meal for half a million people out of the several million in dire need of food.

Aid workers have condemned it as a cynical, dangerous, public-relations exercise. They say that air-dropping food packets is worse than futile.

First, because the food will never get to those who really need it. More dangerously, those who run out to retrieve the packets risk being blown up by landmines. A tragic alms race.

Nevertheless, the food packets had a photo-op all to themselves. Their contents were listed in major newspapers. They were vegetarian, we're told, as per Muslim dietary law (!) Each yellow packet, decorated with the American flag, contained: rice, peanut butter, bean salad, strawberry jam, crackers, raisins, flat bread, an apple fruit bar, seasoning, matches, a set of plastic cutlery, a serviette and illustrated user instructions.

After three years of unremitting drought, an air-dropped airline meal in Jalalabad! The level of cultural ineptitude, the failure to understand what months of relentless hunger and grinding poverty really mean, the US Government's attempt to use even this abject misery to boost its self-image, beggars description.

Reverse the scenario for a moment. Imagine if the Taliban Government was to bomb New York City, saying all the while that its real target was the US government and its policies. And suppose, during breaks between the bombing, the Taliban dropped a few thousand packets containing nan and kebabs impaled on an Afghan flag. Would the good people of New York ever find it in themselves to forgive the Afghan Government? Even if they were hungry, even if they needed the food, even if they ate it, how would they ever forget the insult, the condescension? Rudi Guiliani, Mayor of New York City, returned a gift of $10m from a Saudi prince because it came with a few words of friendly advice about American policy in the Middle East. Is pride a luxury that only the rich are entitled to?

Far from stamping it out, igniting this kind of rage is what creates terrorism. Hate and retribution don't go back into the box once you've let them out. For every "terrorist" or his "supporter" that is killed, hundreds of innocent people are being killed too. And for every hundred innocent people killed, there is a good chance that several future terrorists will be created.

Where will it all lead?

Setting aside the rhetoric for a moment, consider the fact that the world has not yet found an acceptable definition of what "terrorism" is. One country's terrorist is too often another¹s freedom fighter. At the heart of the matter lies the world's deep-seated ambivalence towards violence.

Once violence is accepted as a legitimate political instrument, then the morality and political acceptability of terrorists (insurgents or freedom fighters) becomes contentious, bumpy terrain. The US Government itself has funded, armed and sheltered plenty of rebels and insurgents around the world.

The CIA and Pakistan's ISI trained and armed the Mojahedin who, in the '80s, were seen as terrorists by the government in Soviet-occupied Afghanistan. Today, Pakistan – America's ally in this new war – sponsors insurgents who cross the border into Kashmir in India. Pakistan lauds them as "freedom-fighters", India calls them "terrorists". India, for its part, denounces countries who sponsor and abet terrorism, but the Indian army has, in the past, trained separatist Tamil rebels asking for a homeland in Sri Lanka – the LTTE, responsible for countless acts of bloody terrorism.

(Just as the CIA abandoned the mujahideen after they had served its purpose, India abruptly turned its back on the LTTE for a host of political reasons. It was an enraged LTTE suicide bomber who assassinated former Indian Prime Minister Rajiv Gandhi in 1989.)

It is important for governments and politicians to understand that manipulating these huge, raging human feelings for their own narrow purposes may yield instant results, but eventually and inexorably, they have disastrous consequences. Igniting and exploiting religious sentiments for reasons of political expediency is the most dangerous legacy that governments or politicians can bequeath to any people - including their own.

People who live in societies ravaged by religious or communal bigotry know that every religious text – from the Bible to the Bhagwad Gita – can be mined and misinterpreted to justify anything, from nuclear war to genocide to corporate globalisation.

This is not to suggest that the terrorists who perpetrated the outrage on September 11 should not be hunted down and brought to book. They must be.

But is war the best way to track them down? Will burning the haystack find you the needle? Or will it escalate the anger and make the world a living hell for all of us?

At the end of the day, how many people can you spy on, how many bank accounts can you freeze, how many conversations can you eavesdrop on, how many emails can you intercept, how many letters can you open, how many phones can you tap?

Even before September 11, the CIA had accumulated more information than is humanly possible to process. (Sometimes, too much data can actually hinder intelligence – small wonder the US spy satellites completely missed the preparation that preceded India's nuclear tests in 1998.)

The sheer scale of the surveillance will become a logistical, ethical and civil rights nightmare. It will drive everybody clean crazy. And freedom – that precious, precious thing – will be the first casualty. It's already hurt and haemorrhaging dangerously.

Governments across the world are cynically using the prevailing paranoia to promote their own interests. All kinds of unpredictable political forces are being unleashed. In India, for instance, members of the All India People's Resistance Forum, who were distributing anti-war and anti-US pamphlets in Delhi, have been jailed. Even the printer of the leaflets was arrested.

The rightwing government (while it shelters Hindu extremists groups such as the Vishwa Hindu Parishad and the Bajrang Dal) has banned the Islamic Students Movement of India and is trying to revive an anti-terrorist Act which had been withdrawn after the Human Rights Commission reported that it had been more abused than used. Millions of Indian citizens are Muslim. Can anything be gained by alienating them?

Every day that the war goes on, raging emotions are being let loose into the world. The international press has little or no independent access to the war zone. In any case, mainstream media, particularly in the US, have more or less rolled over, allowing themselves to be tickled on the stomach with press handouts from military men and government officials. Afghan radio stations have been destroyed by the bombing. The Taliban has always been deeply suspicious of the press. In the propaganda war, there is no accurate estimate of how many people have been killed, or how much destruction has taken place. In the absence of reliable information, wild rumours spread.

Put your ear to the ground in this part of the world, and you can hear the thrumming, the deadly drumbeat of burgeoning anger. Please. Please, stop the war now. Enough people have died. The smart missiles are just not smart enough. They're blowing up whole warehouses of suppressed fury.

President George Bush recently boasted, "When I take action, I'm not going to fire a $2m missile at a $10 empty tent and hit a camel in the butt. It's going to be decisive." President Bush should know that there are no targets in Afghanistan that will give his missiles their money's worth.

Perhaps, if only to balance his books, he should develop some cheaper missiles to use on cheaper targets and cheaper lives in the poor countries of the world. But then, that may not make good business sense to the coalition's weapons manufacturers. It wouldn't make any sense at all, for example, to the Carlyle Group – described by the Industry Standard as "the world's largest private equity firm", with $13bn under management.

Carlyle invests in the defence sector and makes its money from military conflicts and weapons spending.

Carlyle is run by men with impeccable credentials. Former US Defence Secretary Frank Carlucci is Carlyle's Chairman and Managing Director (he was a college roommate of Donald Rumsfeld's). Carlyle's other partners include former US Secretary Of State James A Baker III, George Soros and Fred Malek (George Bush Sr's campaign manager). An American paper ­The Baltimore Chronicle and Sentinel– says that former President George Bush Sr is reported to be seeking investments for the Carlyle Group from Asian markets.

He is reportedly paid not inconsiderable sums of money to make "presentations" to potential government-clients.

Ho hum. As the tired saying goes, it's all in the family.

Then there's that other branch of traditional family business – oil. Remember, President George Bush (Jr) and Vice-President Dick Cheney both made their fortunes working in the US oil industry.

Turkmenistan, which borders the north-west of Afghanistan, holds the world's third largest gas reserves and an estimated six billion barrels of oil reserves. Enough, experts say, to meet American energy needs for the next 30 years (or a developing country's energy requirements for a couple of centuries.) America has always viewed oil as a security consideration, and protected it by any means it deems necessary. Few of us doubt that its military presence in the Gulf has little to do with its concern for human rights and almost entirely to do with its strategic interest in oil.

Oil and gas from the Caspian region currently moves northward to European markets. Geographically and politically, Iran and Russia are major impediments to American interests. In 1998, Dick Cheney – then CEO of Halliburton, a major player in the oil industry – said, "I can't think of a time when we've had a region emerge as suddenly to become as strategically significant as the Caspian. It's almost as if the opportunities have arisen overnight." True enough.

For some years now, an American oil giant called Unocal has been negotiating with the Taliban for permission to construct an oil pipeline through Afghanistan to Pakistan and out to the Arabian sea. From here, Unocal hopes to access the lucrative "emerging markets" in South and South-east Asia. In December 1997, a delegation of Taliban mullahs travelled to America and even met US State Department officials and Unocal executives in Houston. At that time the Taliban's taste for public executions and its treatment of Afghan women were not made out to be the crimes against humanity that they are now.

Over the next six months, pressure from hundreds of outraged American feminist groups was brought to bear on the Clinton administration.

Fortunately, they managed to scuttle the deal. And now comes the US oil industry's big chance.

In America, the arms industry, the oil industry, the major media networks, and, indeed, US foreign policy, are all controlled by the same business combines. Therefore, it would be foolish to expect this talk of guns and oil and defence deals to get any real play in the media. In any case, to a distraught, confused people whose pride has just been wounded, whose loved ones have been tragically killed, whose anger is fresh and sharp, the inanities about the "clash of civilisations" and the "good vs evil" discourse home in unerringly. They are cynically doled out by government spokesmen like a daily dose of vitamins or anti-depressants. Regular medication ensures that mainland America continues to remain the enigma it has always been – a curiously insular people, administered by a pathologically meddlesome, promiscuous government.

And what of the rest of us, the numb recipients of this onslaught of what we know to be preposterous propaganda? The daily consumers of the lies and brutality smeared in peanut butter and strawberry jam being air-dropped into our minds just like those yellow food packets. Shall we look away and eat because we're hungry, or shall we stare unblinking at the grim theatre unfolding in Afghanistan until we retch collectively and say, in one voice, that we have had enough?

As the first year of the new millennium rushes to a close, one wonders – have we forfeited our right to dream? Will we ever be able to re-imagine beauty?

Will it be possible ever again to watch the slow, amazed blink of a newborn gecko in the sun, or whisper back to the marmot who has just whispered in your ear – without thinking of the World Trade Centre and Afghanistan?

[kingy7]

Let's Talk About Wrestling

I am a Geek. I am totally comfortable with this. In fact the older I get the more comfortable I am. Being a Geek comes with its challenges, particularly in ones youth. Being the 'Star Trek' kid at school isn't fun. However as one grows and those around them do too, it becomes less of a taboo to discuss love of all things geeky. More so now perhaps than ever as franchises like Marvel and Doctor Who become more and more mainstream.

However there is one area of my Geekiness that still baffles people, one passion of mine that many simply cannot understand and one that still carries a stigma. You see, I am a proud Geek but I'm also a wrestling fan.

Let's take a look at the three stages of my wrestling origin story:

There's always a new fad when you're a kid. He-Man, Ninja Turtles, Power Rangers. Pop culture phenomena that spring seemingly out of nowhere, become the driving force of playground life then disappear without trace save for a mild embarrassment that we ever enjoyed them in the first place. And so it was in 1991 when suddenly all anyone wanted to talk about was wrestling. Specifically WWF wrestling as that was the only type most could watch in those days. I don't recall exactly what piqued my interest. It was as if one day I knew that wrestling was the next big thing and that I had to be invested in it. The cool action figures may have played a part too. In fact, I owned an Ultimate Warrior figure before I knew who he was or indeed how bad he was. That latter realisation wouldn't come until phase two of my wrestling journey but we're getting ahead of ourselves.

We were lucky enough to have Sky TV as this was the only way to watch WWF in those days. Again I have no memory of how exactly it transpired but somehow I was aware that SummerSlam was showing on Sky Movies (not Sky Sports, that should have been a clue) and as it was broadcast at 1AM my Dad taped it and the next day I watched my first wrestling show.

Incidentally having Sky TV had the knock on effect of making those who had the service the centre of our fledgling wrestling communities. My neighbour would regularly 'call round' to watch the events as would friends from school in the years that followed.

SummerSlam '91 was a curious PPV (Pay Per View, American Audiences had to pay for each event whereas in the UK they were shown for 'free' on Sky) in that it features a 'double main event'! One of these events wasn't even a match at all in the traditional sense, it was a wedding. The pun being that the participants were a 'match made in heaven'. The other featured as a tag team the two biggest stars in wrestling at the time Hulk Hogan and the life size version of my action figure - The Ultimate Warrior.

What struck me immediately was how clearly drawn the characters were. I could tell instantly who I was supposed to cheer and who deserved my boos. Early in the show The Million Dollar Man Ted DiBiase cut a promo (wrestling speak for yammering on the microphone) and I turned to my Dad and said "I don't want him to win because he thinks having money makes him better than everyone else". Little did I know this was the first time I would be successfully 'worked' by a wrestler.

Later in the show I would find some new favorites. Brett Hart, The Bushwackers and of course our countryman The British Bulldog.

I was taken in by the spectacle of it all. The over the top action, the hysterical commentary and the larger than life characters. I was certain to watch the next show. I was so invested that I felt the need to stand during the 'wedding' section of the show. Something I have never confessed to anyone.

It's worth noting that SummerSlam '91 does not hold up to modern scrutiny displaying as it does homophobia and racism. These are tropes that to this day are not entirely absent from wrestling and will always cause me conflict.

Over the next few years WWF became a way of life. I watched the shows, collected the trading cards and action figures and even attended a live event. Such was its grip on British popular culture that one year on from my introduction SummerSlam '92 was held in Wembley Stadium. Absent from that show was Hulk Hogan.

And with Hulk eventually would go my interest in the 'sport'. He became my hero, and as the whole show was built around him it was hard to accept anyone else as the 'top guy'. I soldiered on for a while before stopping watching at SummerSlam '93 almost exactly two years after I'd started.

And as so many fads do, wrestling in the UK became a forgotten past time. Never spoken of at school and regarded with scorn for the poor souls who still watched it.

The question I was asked most over those years, usually by adults, was "Don't you know it's fake?". Yes I did. Everyone told me frequently enough. But I chose to ignore it. I chose to pretend it was real. This is something that non fans seem unable to grasp. Wrestling is no more fake than films and as a result can be no less real if you choose to allow it to be. Maybe we'll take a closer look at that another time.

The next time I watched wrestling was in 1998. Five years may not seem like a long time but the difference between a 12 year old and a 17 year old is like a lifetime.

Had you asked me at that age if I had any interest in wrestling I may well have laughed. It was a part of my childhood, that I now viewed with an ironic detachment. I looked down on younger me who had been taken in by this fake sport. I had no idea that I was about to become a fan for life.

It started with a video game. WWF Warzone. Myself and my friends has been playing it on the N64 and enjoying the fighting mechanics and the characters. We were surprised to see some old favorites in there, The Undertaker, The Bulldog and Brett Hart. Then as we played more we came up with the idea of maybe watching an event for old times sake. See what it was like now?

That event was Survivor Series '98 and it could not have been a better re-introduction.

What we didn't know at the time was that the WWF title had been vacated (It was this whole thing with The Undertaker and Kane and Stone Cold Steve Austin) and so the whole event would be a tournament to crown the new champion. It's rare that a wrestling show has one story over the whole night and even rarer that it's so accessible for an audience who haven't watched in years. Through the tournament format we got to know most of the main characters and saw how they related to each other. We saw the planting of seeds for future rivalries and the twists and turns that were now central to the narrative. I've often wondered if we'd have chosen the previous month's show or the one after if we'd have been as hooked.

But hooked we were, as Survivor Series introduced us to a new generation of grapplers, the aforementioned Steve Austin, Mankind and The Rock being standouts. The latter of course would become one of the most famous people in the world but here he was just getting into his groove as a bad guy. His betrayal of the fans at the end of the show was what compelled us to watch the next episode. The sudden turn with seemingly no reason left an unresolved cliffhanger that demanded an answer. This was where I really started to think about wrestling from a story telling perspective. As a kid it was all about the superheroic characters, but this was different. It was as if the matches served mainly to drive the story onward and the soap opera like sagas were the real draw. I began to think about the wrestlers as playing pieces and the writer as a chess master whose job it was to position them ready for their next match.

Since that event I have barely missed a monthly PPV. My interest has waxed and waned but even at times when i've been unable to watch the shows, I've maintained an interest and followed the story. There have been major lulls in wrestling over the years since. The Cena years were a struggle and the less said about Roman Reigns before he was a bad guy, the better. However the third turning point in my wrestling journey would come not from the stalwart WWE (they got the F out) but from a new company called AEW.

You see WWE had gotten pretty boring by the 2010's. There were no big stars who captured the imagination and the in-ring style was familiar to the point of tedium. I kept an eye on the developments and watched Wrestlemania every year but there was no passion for it in me anymore.

That would change when I heard that there was a new company opening its doors, one that promised to be an alternative, to deliver exactly the kind of entertainment that WWE was not.

It took me a while to get into it if I'm honest. The style was different and the action spectacular but it was so far removed from what I'd thought of as 'wrestling' that I found myself struggling to follow it.

Then something clicked and everything I'd been missing since the heady days of the 'attitude era' was back. Not just back but better. And through AEW I discovered different styles of wrestling and began learning more about its history.

I still watch AEW weekly, I have attended one of their shows as well as local British shows and I would say that my love of wrestling as an art form is at an all time high.

I know many people will still laugh but wrestling is something I care about. It's a form of storytelling that can't be seen elsewhere and above all I love stories. Whether they're written in a book by a novelist or told in the ring by enormous muscled maniacs.

[dustedmagazine]

Listed: Violin Sect

Photo credit: Steve Jinks

Formed in 1980 and disbanded in 1981, the obscure Welsh post-punk band Violin Sect left behind just one seven-inch, “Highdays and Holidays/Rivals,” documenting their brief existence. In fact, they’ve flown so low on the radar since then that they were even overlooked for the Messthetics compilations, the CD series that brought the sounds of the many forgotten and amusingly-named UK DIY bands of their time and ilk to a (relatively) wider audience. This started to change in 2019, however, when Sect bassist Steve Walker posted a couple of previously unreleased songs that he’d dug up to Soundcloud, where Minimum Stacks label head Joe Piccirillo heard them as his label was just getting off the ground. Fast forward to 2023 and we have the Vile Insect 12-inch, featuring all four songs from the band’s short life transferred from the original ¼" tapes. The result, to Andrew Forrell of Dusted’s ears, is a mix of “dubby rhythms, scratchy post-punk guitar, whimsy and skepticism,” able to stand with Scritti Politti’s “Skank Bloc Bologna” and Swell Maps “Read About Seymour.” And thanks to this release, it’s finally in a position to reach the audience it deserves.

Although Walker’s bandmates — Steve Jinks (guitar), Phil Rimmell (drums) and Hywel Pontin (percussion and backing vocals) — were unavailable to take part, Walker has assembled a list of some of his favorite music, art and literature from his 67 years on earth for Dusted. “A snapshot within a snapshot,” if you will.

The Raincoats

I was lucky enough to catch a London gig by the Raincoats in 1979 around the time they released their first single. This year Gina Birch (bass/vocals), also 67, has released her first solo album, I Play My Bass Loud, and it’s been worth the wait. Here’s an early one from the first Raincoats LP, though.

Mica Levi — “Lips”

I got the same sort of excitement when I first heard Mica Levi, together with their bandmates in Micachu and the Shapes. Their work has continued to grow and encompasses other genres such as film soundtracks (e.g., Jackie).

Sufjan Stevens — “Video Game”

I first became aware of Sufjan Stevens with the release of Illinois and caught him at the end of his UK tour promoting it at King’s College London with a pared-down (although still with those wondrous wings) extra gig. In later years he was in Bristol on the Carrie & Lowell tour. Sublime. Here’s a later track with fabulous dancing.

Saul Leiter — In No Great Hurry: 13 Lessons in Life

I’ve spent a lifetime as a specialist nurse supporting individuals with intellectual disabilities to maintain and develop their independence together with practicing as a part time psychotherapist for the general public, within the UK’s National Health Service. During this time, I’ve drawn, painted, made music but mainly taken photos (since I was a kid with a darkroom). Maybe there’ll be an exhibition of my own one day but, like Saul Leiter, I’m used to “postponing things and seeing no reason to be in a rush.” For me, his exhibitions and photobooks have a magical quality that validate and inspire all at the same time.

Ivor Cutler

Ivor Cutler always had my heart but here’s an epic that didn’t feature on his own albums.

Angeline Morrison — The Sorrow Songs: Folk Songs of Black British Experience

In 2022 Angeline Morrison released an astonishing album… I’m afraid that I can’t stop myself recommending it to people! If you get a chance…

Paul Wright — Arcadia

Arcadia is a short film that explores Britain’s relationship with the earth, its secret pasts, hidden histories and collective amnesia using old film and TV footage in an exhilarating fashion.

Wet Leg — “Chaise Longue,” live at the BRIT Awards, 2023

A performance from the here and now, incorporating the past with the present in a truly WTF moment at the Brits!

Gretchen Gerzina — Black England

Books… so many books! So, here’s what I’m currently reading.

Anthony Gormley — Another Place

Finally… if ever in Liverpool, visit Crosby Beach and experience Antony Gormley’s sculpture. It consists of 100 cast iron figures facing towards the sea, (gradually becoming encrusted with barnacles, etc.) all modeled on Gormley’s own naked body.

[richaldis]

Equity statement in full

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Solidarity Statement & Advice Regarding SAG-AFTRA Industrial Action 2023

Statement from the General Secretary of Equity, Paul W Fleming

"SAG-AFTRA is Equity’s sister union representing performers on screen in the United States. They are currently in negotiations with the AMPTP - the engagers association for film and TV producers in the United States. Earlier this year, SAG-AFTRA balloted their members to achieve authorisation for strike action if it was necessary to achieve a good settlement in these negotiations. Today, SAG-AFTRA’s Board has taken the brave step of authorising a strike.

"SAG-AFTRA’s claim to the producers contains many critical elements for performers on their agreements. The key elements of the claim are longstanding, shared fights for our unions –issues like pay and residual payments. But SAG-AFTRA, like Equity, is also bravely facing head-on existential questions on issues like Artificial Intelligence (AI), and the rise in virtual auditions and self-tapes. Securing fairness in pay, terms, and conditions is critical whether they be with traditional producers, or new global streamers, and with new modes of making and distributing work to a global audience.

"Equity stands full square behind our sister union in their claim, and the action their Board have agreed to take. Equity too is experiencing bullish engagers attempting to undermine its collectively bargained agreements. SAG-AFTRA has our total solidarity in this fight.

"We say clearly to the AMPTP and their members that they need to move significantly and swiftly to meet the reasonable aspirations of SAG-AFTRA’s members. The members of our unions, and all entertainment unions across the globe, create the vast wealth within our industry – it is right and just that they have decent, modern pay and conditions.

"Equity has been in constant contact with our sister union throughout the negotiations at every level – including the President and General Secretary attending in person in Los Angeles earlier this month. We will continue to work closely and collaboratively on advice for artists working in the United Kingdom as the situation develops.

"Industrial relations legislation in the United Kingdom is draconian, and often viewed as the most restrictive in the Western world. The convoluted and pernicious hurdles faced by all unions in the United Kingdom are a national disgrace and need urgent reform. The regrettable consequence of this framework is that what artists working in the United Kingdom – whether SAG-AFTRA and/or Equity members (or both) – can do, may be different from their comrades in the United States and other parts of the world.

"Equity is fighting alongside the rest of the trade union movement in the UK to reform our illiberal industrial relations framework in parliament, in the courts, and on the streets.

"Detailed advice for artists working in the UK who are Equity and/or SAG-AFTRA members is set out below. Furthermore, Equity will be organising demonstrations, rallies, and protests in the coming days and weeks to show our solidarity with our sister union and their fight.

"As Equity’s motto says: To all artists good work. To all workers good art. To all people: Equity.

"And to SAG-AFTRA: Victory."

Equity and SAG-AFTRA have also issued a joint statement which can be read here.

Advice Concerning SAG-AFTRA Industrial Action – 13th July 2023

Here we set out Equity’s advice for members on the strike action in an easy-to-read way, based on the most common ways in which they are engaged.

You will see that the primary legal problem is this:  We have been advised by SAG-AFTRA that its strike is lawful according to United States law but we have been advised by our UK lawyers that it is not lawful under United Kingdom law. Consequently, a performer joining the strike (or refusing to cross a picket line) in the UK will have no protection against being dismissed or sued for breach of contract by the producer or the engager. Likewise, if Equity encourages anyone to join the strike or not cross a picket line, Equity itself will be acting unlawfully and hence liable for damages or an injunction. What follows is based on that advice from SAG-AFTRA and our lawyers.

In addition to the below, we encourage members to join rallies and demonstrations, which we will be organising in solidarity with SAG-AFTRA in the coming days and weeks.

FAQs

I am an Equity member but not a SAG-AFTRA member. I am working in the UK on an Equity contract for a US producer. Some of my colleagues may be working under SAG-AFTRA agreements. What should I do?

I am a member of SAG-AFTRA and an Equity member. I am working in the UK on an Equity contract for a US producer as I live in the United Kingdom. What should I do?

I am a member of SAG-AFTRA and am working in the UK on an Equity contract. I may or may not be a member of Equity in the UK, as I live in the United States. I have an addendum to my contract which has been issued by SAG-AFTRA to allow me to work on an Equity contract under Global Rule 1 (‘GR1’). What should I do?

I am a member of SAG-AFTRA and am working on a SAG-AFTRA contract in the United Kingdom. I may or may not be a member of Equity in the UK and I live in the United States. I do not have an addendum to my contract because I am working on a full SAG-AFTRA contract. What should I do?

I am a member of Equity and SAG-AFTRA, and am working on a production in the United States. What should I do?

I am in the UK and I want to show my support for SAG-AFTRA’s dispute whether or not I am working at the moment.

I am being asked to work differently because some of my US colleagues are on strike. What should I do?

I have seen work being advertised as not being open to SAG-AFTRA members in the United Kingdom. I have been asked by my producer at an audition or before signing a contract whether I am a member of SAG-AFTRA or Equity. What should I do?

What will Equity do if producers attempt to relocate productions to the United Kingdom to avoid the SAG-AFTRA strike?

I am a SAG-AFTRA member working in theatre in the United Kingdom – what should I do?

I am a member of Equity or SAG-AFTRA working on a television commercial in the United Kingdom – what should I do?

I am a member of Equity and/or SAG-AFTRA and I am working on an Equity or SAG AFTRA contract outside of the United Kingdom – what should I do?

A production I’m working on has invoked Force Majeure. What does this mean?

What does a Force Majeure mean for me and my payments?

I am expected to do press/publicity for a production I worked on that was on an Equity contract. This company is now a ‘struck’ company affected by SAG-AFTRA’s industrial action. What do I do?

I am expected to do press/publicity for a production I worked on that was on SAG-AFTRA contract. This company is now a ‘struck’ company affected by SAG-AFTRA’s industrial action. What do I do?

Show solidarity on social media

We are encouraging members to show their support for the strikes using hashtag #StandWithSAGAFTRA and using our social media banners. You can add a ribbon to your Facebook profile picture here (note that this won't work as well for Twitter's circular profile pictures). You can also download a header image for your profile or a graphic to post anywhere (to download, right-click the link and choose "Save link as").

Equity incorporating the Variety Artistes' Federation is an independent trade union, registered at: Equity, Guild House, Upper St Martin's Lane, London WC2H 9

Bugger, the links aren't working . Go to the Equity website to see the answers to the questions

[whiteowl-18]

As a host of Hollywood actors join film and TV writers in a strike against major studios and streaming services, filming and production of some popular shows – including “House of the Dragon” and “Industry” – could continue, due to UK strike laws.

Though British acting union Equity said it would “stand in unwavering solidarity” with Screen Actors Guild-American Federation of Television and Radio Artists (SAG-AFTRA), it advised “SAG-AFTRA members currently working under an Equity UK collective bargaining agreement should continue to report to work.”

This, the 47,000-member union noted, was due to the UK’s “draconian” industrial relations legislation, which it called “a national disgrace” in need of reform.

[tellthemeerkatsitsfine]

I’ve decided that what I feel like doing tonight is making a list of my top fifteen favourite stand-up shows that I’ve seen and/or heard since I started all this three years ago. According to my spreadsheet, there are 149 of those (that number should go up fairly quickly in the near future, as I have a bunch more lined up and downloaded, but this is what I have for now). Here are my fifteen favourites of those.

Actually what I wanted to do was make a top ten list, but it was too hard to narrow down, so it turned into top fifteen. And that was still really hard; honourable mentions for things like this are a copout (a way to avoid really cutting things), but I’m going to add those at the bottom anyway. And these fifteen are in alphabetical order, so I don’t have to then rank them in any other way.

My usual rules for “top [anything]” lists apply here, which is only one per category. So I’m not including more than one show per comedian on this list – except in one case, where I did, again, cop out.

1. Alice Fraser – The Resistance

This can be downloaded for free as a podcast, which is absolutely fucking ridiculous for something this good. It’s absurd. Nothing this good should be allowed to be free.

2. Andy Zatlzman – 2019 in Review, part 01

So, I’m starting this list with two different shows that have been somehow disguised as podcast episodes. This one went out as episode 4136 of The Bugle, but it was a proper stand-up show performed for an audience that showed up for Andy Zaltzman’s stand-up, not for a Bugle recording. But the show did get recorded, and the first half of that recording was released on The Bugle. The second half, I’ve never heard. That’s how fucking good the first half was. So good that it makes this list on its own.

3. Daniel Kitson – Fuck the format and rules that I freely chose to set up, I cannot pick only one

I got it down to my top four favourites, and I’m sorry, but I cannot narrow it down further, even for something as important as a top fifteen list on Tumblr of my own invention. Weltanschauung, It’s the Fireworks Talking, Where Once Was Wonder, Something Other than Everything. All as good as each other for wildly different reasons.

4. Daniel Sloss – Jigsaw

X was fucking close to beating this one, though.

5. David O’Doherty – You Only Live

I love his Live in His Own Car During a Pandemic album most for subjective atmospheric reasons, but You Only Live is his strongest collection of material.

6. Desiree Burch – Unfuckable

It’s on that Soho Theatre Live thing that’s on Amazon Prime if you’re in the UK, or have a VPN that makes your internet think you’re in the UK. It’s the least family friendly stand-up show I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen all five Frankie Boyle DVDs. It’s brilliant.

7. Hannah Gadsby – Douglas

Naming this as my favourite show by her might be controversial, and I absolutely love Nannette. I think Nannette is powerful and groundbreaking and genre-advancing and everything, but it’s also, in many places, absolutely hilarious. It should be a sign of how incredibly funny and perfectly structured I think Douglas is, that it beats that in my mind.

8. James Acaster – Cold Lasagne I Hate Myself 1999

There are times when I think this one’s slightly overrated, but only because it would be almost impossible for anything rated that highly to not be slightly overrated. But only slightly. The fact that it is very nearly as good as its accolades means it’s one of the very best stand-up shows of its generation.

9. Joe Lycett – More, More, More! How do you Lycett How do you Lycett

I watched it over the Christmas holidays this year so this could be recency bias, but I don’t think so. I think it’s genuinely amazing.

10. John Oliver – Terrifying Times

I know he was born to be a TV presenter/satirist/international superstar, but I maintain that his ability to deliver stand-up material is severely underrated. Andy Zaltzman comes on stage for about ten minutes in this show, and they go back and forth in one of my favourite ten-minute blocks of stand-up ever.

11. John Robins – The Darkness of Robins

I thought I didn’t like that guy, largely for the crimes of liking golf, being a bit of a dick on Mock the Week once, and not being Jon Richardson and/or Russell Howard. Then I watched this. Rarely in my life have I been so wrong.

12. Josie Long – Cara Josephine

I first watched this one within the last few weeks as well, but I’m not worried about recency bias affecting this choice. I know it’s one of the best things I’ve ever seen.

13. Mark Watson – This Can’t Be It

He made me lose my breath from laughter with stories about parenthood. Fucking no one else can do that.

14. Nish Kumar – Your Power Your Control

I have seen this one live twice: once in New York City and once in Montreal. Montreal involved driving two hours there in the evening, and then two hours home in the middle of the night. NYC involved driving 8.5 hours, across an international border, to a city I’d never been to before and fucking hated when I got there. I hated every second of that trip during which I was not actively watching Nish Kumar. I had to do that drive, then I had to be in that terrible city, then after the show I crashed on my brother’s uncomfortable couch before doing another 8.5-hour drive home. I’d gone into the trip thinking that maybe while I was there I’d go see some tourist stuff or something, at least get a picture in front of the building after which 30 Rock was named, but I ended up not doing that because I hated the city so much. I still consider both trips 100% worth it. It was worth that terrible trip just to bring my number of times seeing this show live up to two.

I know it was filmed in October 2022, and I cannot fucking wait until it gets released somewhere. The day it does get published, I am going to post links to it every thirty minutes for the first week, no one who knows me on this site will be able to escape it.

15. Rhod Gilbert – The Award-Winning Mince Pie

I actually think The Man with the Flaming Battenberg Tattoo might be the objectively best one of the four shows he’s released as DVDs. But I have a soft spot for The Award-Winning Mince Pie, partly because it was the first one I watched and my introduction to how incredible he is when alone on stage, and partly because its throughline takes place in a service station late at night, and I first watched it during a lockdown, when I was feeling particularly sad about missing my pre-pandemic life of constant travel, including many middle-of-the-night visits to service stations. But my soft spot aside, I’m quite sure it’s objectively an incredibly good show. Ridiculously good material and delivery.

Honourable mentions go to: Rose Matfeo’s Horndog, Dara O’Briain’s Voice of Reason, Sean Lock’s Purple Van Man, Sarah Keyworth’s Dark Horse, and Stewart Lee’s Tornado (I know that’s not Stewart Lee’s objectively best show, and maybe it’s recency bias that makes it my current favourite, but that’s what it is for me right now – my apologies to Josh Widdicombe for that).