My historic crush is SirArthur Henry Rostron, KBE, RD, RNR (14 May 1869 – 4 November 1940). He was the captain of the RMS Carpathia and was the one who rescued the Titanic survivors. Now I’m a serious hardcore Titanic fanboy, and this guy was a serious hero, though he didn’t consider himself one.
On receiving Titanic’s SOS call he changed course and pushed his ship beyond all normal limits to travel 58 miles to reach the stricken liner. The Carpathia’s top speed was 14 knots, but Rostron and his crew managed to get her up to 17. 706 people were rescued.
Though much praised and decorated for his calm and exemplary actions the modest Rostron was reluctant to speak publicly about the Titanic disaster. But in response to a journalist querying many years later how his little ship could have been coerced to travel at a speed greater than the maximum of which she was supposedly capable, and how she had progressed safely at such speed through ice in the dark, the deeply religious Rostron simply replied “A hand other than mine was on the wheel that night”.
“I feel like an adopted son” ~ Kevin Spacey on hearing the news that he will received an honorary Knighthood in the U.K. In the meantime, let’s enjoy a photo of Kevin as a Commander of the British Empire (CBE) November 3, 2010
Ha az Igazságügyi Bizottság vezetője sikítozni kezd ijedtében két tucat teljesen csendben tiltakozó aktivista láttán, akik beleszólást kérnek a saját ügyü(n)kbe, akkor vajon hogyan reagálna Rubovszky Aljas-Módon-Betörtek-A-Bizottsági-Ülésemre György, ha a mi mozgalmaink nem küzdöttek volna több, mint egy évszázadon át az erőszakmentességért?
Egyre kevésbé szórakoztat, amikor konkrét elnyomást szorgalmazó emberek hisztiznek az erőszakmentesek kiállásain. Nem is sejtitek, faszikáim, mit kapnátok a pofátokba, ha mi is a ti szabályaitok szerint játszanánk.
Ugyanitt tisztelet jár a tegnapi tiltakozó kéttucatnak: éljenek soká!
It’s “Dame Sarah Connolly” or “Dame Sarah,” never “Dame Connolly.” The titles Dame and Sir are not used with surnames alone. Even though I know this full well, I once addressed a DBE as “Dame [Surname].” Conversation moved on too quickly for me to correct myself and I have remained permanently embarrassed by the faux pas.
DBE stands for Dame Commander of the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire. It is the second highest rank (out of five) in the Order of the British Empire, a class of civil and military honours awarded in the United Kingdom and British Commonwealth to recognize contributions in various fields including the arts. DBE is correctly written after someone’s name (as in Dame Sarah Connolly DBE CBE), not before. Sarah Connolly was previously awarded the third highest honour in the order, CBE.
The male equivalent of the DBE is KBE (Knight Commander of the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire), but most of the “Sirs” in classical music are Knights Bachelor, a completely different class of honour available only to men. For example, the opera singers Sir Thomas Allen, Sir John Tomlinson, and Sir Willard White have been thus recognized. Since women cannot be knighted, a woman who is chosen for very high recognition in her field is usually bumped up to the DBE, which ranks above a Knight Bachelor in precedence.
Other living opera singers that I can think of who have been awarded the DBE include Dame Janet Baker, Dame Josephine Barstow, Dame Gwyneth Jones, Dame Emma Kirkby, Dame Felicity Lott, Dame Malvina Major, Dame Felicity Palmer, and Dame Kiri Te Kanawa. An honorary DBE has been awarded to Ann Murray; because she is an Irish citizen, she does not get addressed by the title of Dame.
“I should like to help everyone, if possible - Jew, Gentile, black man, white. We all want to help one another. Human beings are like that. We want to live by each other’s happiness - not by each other’s misery.” - The Great Dictator (1940)
For jadeddiva, whose suggestion of a 1960s AU set in Oxford or Cambridge immediately stuck in my head as a Sansa/Willas fic and refused to leave. Then it somehow turned into three parts, and I have no idea how that happened either. So yes, this is the first. Enjoy, darling.
Sansa Stark arrives at Somerville College on one of those late-summer English afternoons when the light is pure hammered gold and the sun doesn’t set for hours, in the back seat of a large black Duesenberg driven by the family butler Jory, all her worldly possessions packed into two portmanteaus and her lace-gloved hands clenched firmly in her lap to stop them shaking. Up ahead, she can see girls in fashionable headscarves, red lipstick and marquee-idol sunglasses, girls in preppy skirts and and a daring few in slacks and culottes, carrying boxes up the steps of Somerville’s sedate brick halls and chatting with their friends. To Sansa’s eye, they all look impossibly pretty, impossibly accomplished, probably speak French and play the piano beautifully, and while she spent a few summers in Normandy and has fingers still callused from years of lessons, she feels, at this moment, utterly insignificant. Her hand goes up again nervously to finger the double string of pearls around her neck. At least she won’t look as out of place as she desperately feels.
Sansa is eighteen, the eldest daughter of Eddard Stark, who is — or was, anyway — the patriarch of an ancient and noble English family, holder of Winterfell Castle in Northumbria almost back to the Conquest. But Stark made himself deeply unpopular in the serried halls of British power, and particularly the House of Lords. There have long been whispers of scandale, the sort conducted in genteel parlors and smoky back rooms of gentlemen’s clubs on Pall Mall, and after Edward VIII’s abdication to marry his divorced American mistress, there was a decades-long effort by Lord Eddard’s enemies to link him to their suspected Nazi sympathies. Even after the war ended, and Great Britain and America plunged headlong into a new fight with communism, Eddard Stark refused to keep quiet. One thing led to another, and he died six years ago in suspicious circumstances in a Soviet military prison. All of his family’s efforts to find out more, to obtain information or an official pardon from Downing Street, have been curtly rebuffed, with the intimation that they won’t ask again if they know what’s good for them.
Hence Sansa is here, the daughter of a disgraced suspected traitor, in Oxford, hoping to complete her schooling and not be noticed. It took her quite a bit of persuasion to even be allowed to go, as she was already considered suitably “finished” and was instead expected to make a socially prestigious match with a scion of the sherry-and-sweater-set club. Marry a good English man from a good English family, and let all shadow of doubt over the family’s loyalty be removed — no idle threat, in a war as cold as this one. But proper as he might have been, captain of the Boat Club and already accepted to read law at Cambridge and heir to one of the largest ancestral fortunes in the country, there was no way that Joffrey Baratheon was anything but a monster.