Real England

fuckin yes

ITV might want to review their autocorrect policies:

She said: "I'm more mad because I'm not going to get my poofy and my cushions off of them. How am I going to get them?"

haha.

My grandma had a poof to put her feet up on so I don’t see why this lady should have her poofy.

the autocorrect also seems to have replaced "took" with "taken".

the story is actually way more sympathetic than I expected based on that clip, I thought she'd just be someone who stole a sofa and dgaf and even then I was still thinking '...cool'

xp I'm always semi-professionally fascinated by ppl's policies of 'correcting' minor errors of grammar in things like this where it doesn't really make much difference either way

if you're a stan you can watch the much better and longer version of that hard hitting news report here:

http://www.itv.com/news/2018-09-07/mum-had-no-choice-but-to-make-off-with-house-of-fraser-sofa/

'Erratic driver' watching pornography when stopped in Doncaster

Obsessed with the “bastards’ nostalgia” genre of jigsaw puzzle. Every man jack of them = a Faragean fever dream of era-mangling, magical realist menace pic.twitter.com/k1LwE5Z5uv

— Sarah Dempster (@Dempster2000) September 11, 2018

that stuff makes Lynch's exercises in macabre in the ordinary look lightweight as fuck!

https://i.imgur.com/3YvCXEi.jpg?1

dare to deep dream

https://cdn.vox-cdn.com/thumbor/U7fQnI0fr2SFGVnHwfAjmte7rd4=/0x61:946x692/920x613/filters:focal(0x61:946x692):format(webp)/cdn.vox-cdn.com/uploads/chorus_image/image/34438363/Richarddjames.0.png

the completely fucked sense of scale on the spitfire image is making me feel queasy

omg I love these - the nightmarish, inconsistent perspective, the lurid overload of details!

http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9axor4aNwOk/Uxo89FeSfBI/AAAAAAAA0gE/AUg0u5YFERQ/s1600/the+secretary.jpg

i read this today. Joseph Conrad.

https://pbs.twimg.com/media/Dm0Qts4W0AA3OL4?format=jpg&name=large

xp the combination of nostalgia + apparently drug-induced collapsing of the conventions of time and space is making me think of Penny Lane

christ the fixed grin on the guy behind the desk is genuinely unnerving

https://q4j2g5j9.stackpathcdn.com/ddg-dream/beae28d3873f5b9acdf277247e9de58bbd6a933d.jpg?2

lmao

lol

soref otm, these are intense

The secretary giving the viewer the eye is straight out of 'Carry On' or 'Confessions of an Office Manager'.

he's a 70's St Martens graduate, but doesn't get mentioned on the notable alumni lists for some reason.

I would readily buy mark s's line of DeepEngland puzzles

mark s deep dream image is actually less distressing than the original imo, it's just made the roiling chthonic horror already present visible, like roddy piper's glasses in they live

level 6, "spirits" setting:
https://q4j2g5j9.stackpathcdn.com/ddg-dream/47190ffafbe83175af0aee8fedcb90a142acff29.jpg?6

The typical tale is told, and exceedingly well told--though, alas, not exactly in the language of the natives--by Mrs. Bray in her Letters to Southey, of a certain midwife of Tavistock. One midnight, as she was getting into bed, this good woman was summoned by a strange, squint-eyed, little, ugly old fellow to follow him straight-way, and attend upon his wife. In spite of her instinctive repulsion she could not resist the command and in a moment the little man whisked her, with himself, upon a large coal-black horse with eyes of fire, which stood waiting at the door. Ere long she found herself at the door of a neat cottage; the patient was a decent-looking woman who already had two children, and all things were prepared for her visit. When the Child--a fine, bouncing babe--was born, its mother gave the midwife some ointment, with directions to "strike the child's eyes with it." Now the word strike in the Devonshire dialect means not to give a blow, but to rub, or touch, gently; and as the woman obeyed she thought the task an odd one, and in her curiosity tried the effect of the ointment upon one of her own eyes. At once a change was wrought in the appearance of everything around her. The new mother appeared no longer as a homely cottager, but a beautiful lady attired in white; the babe, fairer than before, but still witnessing with the elvish cast of its eye to its paternity, was wrapped in swaddling clothes of silvery gauze; while the elder children, who sat on either side of the bed, were transformed into flat-nosed imps, who with mops and mows were busied to no end in scratching their own polls, or in pulling the fairy lady's ears with their long and hairy paws. The nurse, discreetly silent about what she had done and the wonderful metamorphoses she beheld around her, got away from the house of enchantment as quickly as she could; and the sour-looking old fellow who had brought her carried her back on his steed much faster than they had come. But the next market-day, when she sallied forth to sell her eggs, whom should she see but the same ill-looking scoundrel busied in pilfering sundry articles from stall to stall. So she went up to him, and with a nonchalant air addressed him, inquiring after his wife and child, who, she hoped, were both as well as could be expected. "What!" exclaimed the old pixy thief, "do you see me to-day?" "See you! to be sure I do, as plain as I see the sun in the skies; and I see you are busy into the bargain," she replied. "Do you so? "cried he; "pray, with which eye do you see all this?" "With the right eye, to be sure." "The ointment! the ointment!" exclaimed the old fellow; "take that for meddling with what did not belong to you: you shall see me no more."

He struck her eye as he spoke, and from that hour till the day of her death she was blind on the right side, thus dearly paying for having gratified an idle curiosity in the house of a pixy.

in level six of "carry on deepdreaming the secretary" pretty much everything has turned in nigel farage's chin

Real Tavistock.

^^in the version i read as a kid, of the midwife among the fairies story -- as collected by amabel williams-ellis* in "fairytales from the british isles" -- the fairy's true dwelling is also revealed by the ointment: "she saw she wasn't in a cottage at all, but sitting under the branches of an old oak, whose hollow and moss-grown trunk she had mistaken for the fireplace. fire and candle were nothing but glow-worms…"

*who married the guy who built portmeirion, so the number six is relevant

I figured out who the oddly outsized secretary with eaten cakes reminds me of

https://dg19s6hp6ufoh.cloudfront.net/pictures/611837579/large/1book10.jpeg

Ordinarily in crowded paintings like this I like to apply a fun piece of ILx method, by way of identifying the Xander (apparently peripheral character which the work is secretly all about) and/or the Bez (apparently superfluous figure without whom the whole enterprise falls to meaningless pieces). It's fun to try with (eg) Bosch or one of the Breughel chaps. I can't do it with these, and the fact that I find it impossible to identify that kind of centre might be why I find the pictures more unnerving than it feels like I should.

ph'nglui mglw'nafh waldo r'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn

nagl indeed

i didn't truly understand non-euclidean geometry until i gazed upon these curséd paintings

Came across Antique Roadshow last night. Some guy was showing two medals his great-grandad had received because he had saved 15 horses from drowning in a mine once. He did it alone because all the other miners were on strike. That's p real in itself, but the kicker was the medal expert admiring them and saying (qfm): "They're beautiful because they stand for one of the last true real British things, which is taking care of our animals, don't you think"?

I threw the telly in the garden. P sure I didn't hurt a fox while it landed.

They closed the show with the stuffed head of the dog that caught the last man to be hanged in Leicester, which was absolutely nightmarish.

IIRC the last true real British thing is being sure to watch Antiques Roadshow on iplayer so you can scroll straight past the boring, endless bits on medals and militaria.

"this is a fascinating family heirloom, it's a genuine 19th-century bear-baiting muzzle, and we know from a family diary that it was still in use decades after bear-baiting was banned in 1835"

Came across Antique Roadshow last night. Some guy was showing two medals his great-grandad had received because he had saved 15 horses from drowning in a mine once. He did it alone because all the other miners were on strike

Fucking scab.

Can't deny the head of the dog and the story was some grim viewing. All smiles on my tube though.

The very state of daytime UK tv these days, I can't decide if that's Real England or not. It's all antique and salvage shows. Stuff in the attic, Antique Road Trip, Antique Road Show, Flog it, Money for Nothing, Salvage Hunters... You can spend your whole day clicking to and fro and be lulled to a coma at the end of the night. How is this opium for the masses?

There is something wholesome about antiques. Whenever I'm on one of my UK trips I'll look for antique shops and usually get something from one. What you're confounded by is the noxious interface between this wholesomeness and the retreat into daytime television beloved of the Daily Express generation. Add in all these emails and self-service checkouts and whatnot that you get nowadays and it's just good too have some thing to remind you of the god old days!!

Without you know actually getting up and going to an antique dealer's, because fuck modern times right but you secretly love having everything delivered to your doorstep

which is best, emails or the black death

the black death would be unpleasant but would at least put fleas back on the map

emails are good not bad so they win marginally

Back in my day you'd write perfectly-calligraphed thank you letters to your friends after they'd kicked a ball in the street with you, now I spend all my time buttfucking the libs on Twister

"What you're confounded by is the noxious interface between this wholesomeness and the retreat into daytime television beloved of the Daily Express generation"

Well yeah. I like antique, I like snooping around for it. But by god all those shows with all those terrible, terrible people.* Trying to pretend there exists an England outside of reality, a cardboard England without Brexit and John Terry and Grenfell and the homeless. I get why it's made, I get the desire to watch it, but sheesh the dose is just too strong.

* except Catherine Southon, light of my life, fire of my loins etc

My mum loves these shows.