Political junkies are justifiably on the edge of their seats for former FBI Director James Comey’s testimony before the Senate intelligence committee, but don’t sleep on the UK’s snap election, which could end up being the biggest political story of the day. The polls are now open and there’s a definite possibility that Prime Minister May might have overplayed her hand, potentially turning Britain’s already-messy process of departing from the European Union into full-blown chaos. After what happened last year with Brexit and the election of Donald Trump the reliability of traditional polling is clearly suspect, so don’t depend on anything other than the results tabulated after the votes are actually cast. With an unpredictable, unqualified, and clueless American President in the White House, the decision about who is going to live at 10 Downing Street has tremendous ramifications, especially as the United States shrinks from its role internationally as the world’s leading democratic example. There’s already tension in the USA/UK “Special Relationship” because of the Trump Administration’s disastrous decisions, ideology, and interactions with our allies, and it could get even more difficult if the next British Prime Minister is Jeremy Corbyn, who is basically the ideological opposite of President Trump.
Ringo Starr in Downing Street, London - November 1965 Terry O'Neill: “I have no idea why I shot Ringo outside 10 Downing Street. He must have given some quote to a magazine saying he’d make a great Prime Minister or something. They were happy to do these kinds of shots all the time, but only as long as they trusted the photographer.“
A request from @lazinessisalliknow
I hope this is what you were looking for. I don’t usually write smut but here it is a joker smut.
“Hey!” Your friend called over the music “We’re going now! Emily is about dead!”
You had another shot and turned to look at her “Don’t be a party pooper!” you yelled “I want to drink more!”
“We’re going hun! See you later” She turned with Emily slumped on her shoulder and walked out the club.
You turned and looked at the dance floor with a huge grin on your face. You knocked on the bar behind you and a shot came flying down the bar to you. It was helpful when your old man ran this bar. Hopefully one day it would be yours. You started to walk into the middle of the dance floor. People cleared the way so you could get through. You started to sway your hips to the music. You closed your eyes and let the music and alcohol take over.
All of a sudden you felt a man’s hand grab hold of your arse. You snapped your eyes open to see this vile bald bruiser looking dude. “Hello beautiful.” He smiled at you.
“Ermm no” You moved his hand off you and started to walk off.
However this man wasn’t taking a no from you. He wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you into his body. You tried wriggle free but his arms where too strong. You spun around in his arms and smiled sweetly. You stroked the side of his face making him think you wanted him. He slowly released his grip just enough so you could pull your mini handgun from your bra. You shot him from under the chin. Blood splattered everywhere. The whole club stopped and watched the man fall to the floor.
“y/n!” you heard your father’s voice from the balcony above you.
“Yes daddy” You smiled like you were the most perfect angel.
“I think it’s time you go home sweety”
“But dad he-“ he cut you off.
“No, go home” he turned his back to you so you couldn’t continue.
You looked down at the body and kicked it lightly “Asshole” you walked over to the doors, everyone parting like the red Sea.
“Night miss” the bouncer nodded to you.
You held onto the wall next to him to take your heels off “Night Rocco!” you waved your hand and started to walk down the street.
After 10 minutes of walking you realised how much you needed to pee. Home was at least 15 minutes away and running with no shoes on was not an option. You stopped by an alley way and looked up and down the street. Luckily it was clear. You snook down the alley and crouched down by a dumpster. You did a big sigh of relief.
You stood back up and hitched your dress back down. As you walked over to your bag and heels to pick it back up you felt a hand wrap around your hair. Before you do anything they yanked you back and held a gun to your head.
You laughed slightly “A gun? Wow gotham thieves have gone up in the world?” You could hear the man growl in your ear but did say anything “Ermm do you know who I am?”
He took a deep breath in “I know exactly who you are” his voice sent chills down your spine. You recognised his voice but you weren’t sure why.
“What do you want then?”
“Your pretty little head” he breathed in your ear. You had no idea why but his voice was stirring some odd feelings in your stomach. His hand let go of your hair and snaked round your neck till he grabbed hold of it. An involuntary moan escaped your lips.
He spun you around to face his and your heart dropped to your stomach. There he was, the bright red lips, the crisp silver suit, the shining grillz, the bright green hair. You only ever fantasised about meeting the joker. You never thought this day would come. You were breathing so heavy into his face.
A growl came deep from his chest “Mmhh you’re even prettier up close” he whispered.
“Oh my god” you managed to breathe out you’re body shook under his grasp “Are you gonna kill me?”
“Mmhh I was….” he turned his head slightly and breathed in “but you might make a perfect new play thing.”
All of a sudden a car screeched to a holt infront of the alley way. He spun you around and pushed you towards the car still with his hand around the back of your neck. A man got out the car and opened the back door for you. Joker pushed you onto the back seats. Your dress rode up showing a glimpse of your knife you kept in a garter on your thigh. It was custom made, a present from your now dead mother.
Joker snatched it from your leg cutting you slightly “Pretty” he smiled holding it up in the air. You tried to kick him to get your knife. But he punched you in the face knocking you clean out.
You woke up in a cold dark room. Your wrists were tied around your back with cable ties and your feet were tied to the chair. ‘ammatures’ you laughed to yourself. You twisted your wrists and pulled hard. The ties snapped easily. Your feet were even easier. All you needed to do was slide the ties off the chair legs. You were free in under a minute. You stood up and brushed yourself off. Your new dress was ruined. At least it was black.
You looked around the room the only thing in there was a table with your hand bag on, which looked like medical stuff was kept on it and a big metal door. You went to your bag and emptied it on the table. Your gun, phone and keys were gone. Luckily they left your hip flask, smokes, lighter and makeup. You got you little mirror and tried your hardest to sort your face out. You wanted to look your best or as best you could for the one and only Joker.
Once you had done you put all your stuff back in your bag. You sat on the table dangling you legs over the edge. You had a couple of sips of your whiskey and lit a smoke.
You started to whistle to yourself when you heard keys enter the metal door. Your heart started to race. Two men with guns stepped in, you were rather disappointed.
“She’s free!” one of the men shouted behind him.
Three more men charged in. You looked down at your nails and sighed. You hopped off the table and raised your fists. Two of the men run at you. You take them both down quickly. The first you avoided his punches and broke his neck with your hands. The second you grab his gun, jump onto the table, leap down and shoot him in the head. You land on the floor and flip your hair out of your face.
Two more run at you. You grabbed both of their arms, spin them around and smash their heads together. Both fell to floor at your feet.
“What the fuck!” the last man shouted.
You smiled as you raised a gun to him “What’s wrong? Joker not tell you who I am?” You laughed and shot him in the head.
You stopped and breathed out. It had been so long since your last fight. Your farther, a well known mob boss, forced you to train because you were a kidnapping target your whole life. You’re pretty sure you had been taken at least 10 times and you weren’t exactly old.
A deep laugh came from the darkness in the open door. “I’m impressed.” The jokers voice sent chills down your spine. You couldn’t move.
He stepped out the dark and walked towards you. He placed his hand at the small of your back and pulled you into his body. You could feel your heart through your whole body. He pressed your knife against your cheek. “I like you” he smiled again making your stomach do back flips.
With out another thought you grabbed hold of his jacket and pulled him into you kissing him real hard. The knife pressed into you cheeky, blood poured down your face. Joker pushed you back breathing heavy. “You’re crazier than I thought” he looked you up and down before he grabbed hold of your arm and pulled you into his body again. He angrily pressed his lips against yours. He slithered his tongue into your mouth and your tongues started to fight for dominance.
He got his right hand and grabbed your arse harshly. You let out moan into his lips. He smiled into your kiss. He pulled your hair back causing your head to jerk back. “I hope you know I will not be gentle.”
You smiled with your head still back “Gentle is for pussys”
He licked his lips and launched them onto your neck. Sucking and biting making sure he’d leave marks.
“Fuck me!” you breathed out.
He laughed at you “With pleasure doll” He threw you face first against the cold metal table. Your bag and all its contents spilled across the floor. He lifted you dress exposing your arse with nice lace panties on. “We won’t be needing these” he growled and ripped them clean off.
You could feel your self dripping down leg from how wet he was making you.
Joker was not playing around tonight, he wanted you there and then. He pulled his trousers and boxers down, his dick sprung free. He gripped it and stroked it down your slit. “Damn doll” he purred.
“all for you…. daddy”
On that word he rammed his dick into so hard you squealed. He didn’t care if you needed time to adjust. He started to slam himself into you over and over.
His dick was so big you couldn’t help but scream. The more he pounded you the louder you got. “Fuck! J!” you shouted.
“that’s right baby. Shout my name!” he put his hand inbetween your shoulder blades and pushed you even further onto the cold hard table.
“Oh mistah J!” you could feel the heat building up in your stomach as he hit your spot over and over.
He grabbed your hair and pulled you back against his chest. “Cum for me”
He carried on fucking you into oblivion till your vision started to get blurry. “Holy. Shit!” you managed to get out between breaths. The wave of pleasure took over your whole body.
As you started to come down from your high J started to fuck you faster and harder. His breath picked up. “Oh fuck y/n!” That was the first time he said your name. His body shook as he came into you calling your name. He stroked his hand down your back feeling the light film of sweat the formed on your body. He stepped back and pulled out of you.
You stood up, pulled your dress down and picked up your smokes that had fallen. You lit one and smiled at him.
He stepped closer and put his hand over your mouth “You..” He whispered “You belong to me now”
You blew smoke out behind his hand so he would remove it “Fine by me” You winked “but my farther may have something to say about it”
He laughed at you again “Oswald Cobblepot is not a threat to me”
No histrionics from Theresa - just controlled, civilised outrage: QUENTIN LETTS on the PM’s most powerful Downing Street statement
By Quentin Letts for the Daily Mail 24 May 2017
A nearby clock tower had just tolled 11am when a plainly affected Theresa May stepped out of No 10 to make a statement about the killings. Normally the mood in Downing Street before a Prime Ministerial appearance crackles with chatter. Yesterday the mood of the Press corps was subdued.
The shiny black door swung open and photographers’ shutters click-click-clicked. There was no other sound. No helicopter droned overhead, as sometimes happens.
No crowd of protesters jeered slogans at the distant gates. And there were no lensmen’s exhortations of ‘over here, Theresa’, when they try to get her to look their way. Not yesterday. Just silence.
She was in black trouser suit, black, flat shoes, respectful jewellery, tidy hair.
The narrow legs of that trouser suit accentuated her slim-shouldered frame, more vulnerable than you might expect. As she came out of the doorway I was struck by how fragile and lonely she looked.
Although on show, she retained a contemplative, sombre air. In some ways it was the expression of a churchgoer returning to her place after communion.
Of course, she is the least lonely person in the country, constantly surrounded by aides and bodyguards and general to-do. Yet terrorism makes an island of the person at the top. She was the one who had to make the decisions and find words to reassure the nation. How to describe the indescribable? There was a pause as she braced herself for the off. Then: ‘I have just chaired a meeting of the Government’s emergency committee where we discussed the details of and the response to the appalling events in Manchester last night.’
And she was launched on a long, powerful statement in which she averred that ‘the spirit of Manchester and the spirit of Britain’ would prevail. It was a spirit that ‘through years of conflict and terrorism has never been broken’ and never would be, she said. Her cadence turning Churchillian, she conceded ‘there will be difficult days ahead’ but the terrorists would not win.
Mancunian and British solidarity would prove insuperable. The one chink in its armour, perhaps, came when she mentioned the children who had died, and the voice momentarily wobbled.
May speeches are not always memorable. She can sometimes sound prosaic, the larynx doing that warbly, headmistressy thing. Not yesterday. She had not had any sleep and her timbre had sunk a note or two. Her weariness, stark lipstick contrasting with her pale skin, lent her grit. Though physically weary, she was tough inside.
Downing Street makes a theatrical setting. The building’s facade is as flat as any stage back-wall and the bluey greyness of the old brickwork was lifted by sunshine.
Two fine British bobbies stood on duty, out of TV shot but either side of No 10. Suited detectives guarded the Jaguar waiting to whisk her north. A few Foreign Office staff stood behind a large, wrought-iron gate directly opposite Mrs May, watching her, rapt.
One of them was a woman in Muslim head-dress. Attempts to divide our society would not succeed, said Mrs May.
She cited the ‘countless acts of kindness’ that had been seen in Manchester after the attack. The images we hold in our minds should not be those of the senseless slaughter but of the ordinary men and woman who put concerns about their own safety to one side and rushed to help.’
Donald Trump, in his own, direct and welcome way, may have mocked the terrorists as ‘losers’ but vicar’s daughter Mrs May was finding her own way of asserting our values. There was nothing boastful or histrionic in her remarks.
She voiced a controlled, civilised outrage at this assault on Manchester’s defenceless children and their families.
Our Prime Minister – and yes, that is very much what she sounded yesterday – is not a woman given easily to emotion. In the past some have accused her of being robotic. Not yesterday, they wouldn’t have done. Not yesterday. She was poised, sympathetic, sturdy. She spoke her piece well.