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Unexpected withdrawal of the Winter Fuel Payment and Ofgem's... energy cap increase of 10% will leave many older people like Elaine struggling to get by this winter. Help us to save the Winter Fuel Payment for struggling pensioners. Sign our petition 👉show more

aespa 에스파 'Drama' The Giant #WINTER 🔗 aespa 에스파... The 4th Mini Album 〖Drama〗 ➫ 2023.11.10 2PM (KST) / 0AM (ET) 🎧 Pre-Order & Pre-Save #aespa #æspa #에스파 #WINTER #윈터 #Drama #aespaDramashow more

I use bubble wrap to help insulate my windows... during the winter month to save on energy costs ❄️show more

Don’t let these deals slip through your mittens! 🧤... The Ubisoft Store's Winter Sale is live—save up to 85%! Plus, stack on an extra 20% off with code HOLIDAY20. ❄show more

14 years ago today, we played in our first... NHL Winter Classic 🏟️ Relive the magic from Hank’s game-ending penalty shot save that secured a Rangers victory and more outdoor hockey memories →show more

This crazy windy winter was too much for our... Canadian flag so we got a new one today. It's a big flag, much bigger. Long may she fly! God save the King! And Long Live Canada!show more

Nothing to see here, just Geth and Helen Skelton... under an electric blanket together!! (Which, thanks to tech expert Georgie Barrat, could save you money in winter). To find out why, go to BBC iPlayer and search for Morning Live from 23/10/24.show more

🇷🇺⚡Large-scale blackout in Lutsk, western Ukraine after Geran-4 strikes... by the Russian Military. Leaving Kiev for western Ukraine will not save you this winter. Standing up to Zelensky and his corrupt regime will. The years of restraints are over, force will be applied.show more

People in Oleshky, temporarily occupied by Russia, are facing... severe shortages of food, water, electricity, and medicine as regular supply routes have been cut off. Russia is blocking access to the town and preventing civilians from leaving. Ukrainians around the world are taking to the streets to draw attention to this humanitarian catastrophe. One such rally took place in Portugal. With winter approaching, people in Oleshky urgently need help. The world must unite to save the civilians trapped there.show more

Sarah, an ER nurse, dreaded winter mornings. Getting off... a 12-hour shift or waking at 4 a.m. to scrape ice off her windshield was brutal. But for the last month, she walked out to a miracle: her car perfectly clean, snow brushed off, ice scraped, wipers lifted. She checked her doorbell camera. It was Mr. Jenkins, her 80-year-old neighbor. Every morning in the freezing dark, he shuffled over in his robe and boots, cleaned her car so she could save lives without freezing her hands, then quietly returned to his warm coffee. He never told her. “She takes care of us,” Jenkins told his wife. “I take care of her car.” Isn’t that pure kindness?show more

BUFFALO CHANDA WAS LEFT TO DIE IN THE COLD!... Abandoned. Shivering. Helpless. One more freezing night could have ended her life. She survived because we stepped in. Today, Chanda is safe at Sophie Memorial Animal Relief Trust . But thousands of animals won’t survive this winter. Every night, street dogs and abandoned animals curl up on bare ground, stomachs empty, bodies shaking—waiting for morning, if it comes at all. Cold doesn’t show mercy. Hunger doesn’t wait. For them, a blanket is not comfort. A meal is not kindness. It is survival. If we don’t act, the cold will. 📍 Donate now 🔗 💳 UPI: 8810309001@kotak Your contribution tonight could mean: • warmth instead of frost • food instead of hunger • life instead of silence Don’t scroll past their suffering. Be the reason another Chanda survives. #rescues #animalsmatter #KindnessMatters #saveshow more

One wrong lean from a power wheelchair to grab... an Amazon package? Boom💥—falling hazard, butt hits frozen ground, potential disaster for my human. Holding a door + awkward maneuvers on ramp + leaning over flailing an arm trying to grab a package = high-risk mission. It's my time to shine. Watch me handle it🐕‍🦺: Door held open. I strut out like I own the ramp (because I basically do), snatch the small package—sashay back inside past her with "excuse me, hero coming through" energy, execute a flawless turn, and place it gently in her hand. Boom. No butt-on-ground incidents today. Her face goes from tense to that soft, grateful glow, eyes saying "You just saved my dignity, you magnificent beast." I melt. Every. Time. There's going to be ear scritches coming up.❤️🐾 That's us: turning potential wipeouts into "we got this" cuddles. My absolute favorite gig. ALSO...meet the under-ramp squatter: a rogue rabbit who's claimed the spot as his zero-rent winter palace 🐇. Every trip, he's just... there. Lounging like he invented cozy. I give him the barest half-second side-eye—like noticing a stray leaf—and keep rolling. I could evict him with a single bark or chase him off the property, but I have more important business. He's irrelevant. A fuzzy dust collector with delusions of grandeur. I fetch packages and save butts. He... exists. Not my problem, fluff-for-brains. Being my human's safety net in these everyday battles? It's not just service—it's my love language. She's my whole world on wheels, and every gentle hand-off feels like "I've got you, always." Heart full. Tail wagging. 🐾❤️🐕‍🦺 🎥 attached—share if I made your heart smile today. Tag a friend who needs this vibe! #ServiceRottie #ChesnyyTheSassQueen #RottieLove #NoButtOnGround #DisabilityDog #GoodGirlSavesTheDayshow more

Lads. Sit down and give me your ear a... while, for I have watched from the water long enough and the hour is upon us whether we have the stomach for it or not. You remember. Or your fathers told you, or their fathers did, and the knowledge of it is in the marrow of you whether you drew breath in those days or not. The moors in the grey hour before dawn. Wet heather soft under the boot. Peat smoke rising from a low stone chimney a mile out across the bog, thin as a prayer. A sky the colour of a gun barrel and the gulls lamenting above the headland. The smell of turf burning, and wet wool, and the ferrous tang of the sea when the wind swung around out of the Atlantic and put the taste of iron on your tongue. A man could walk that land and know every stone of it was his by inheritance, because his grandfather had broken his back upon it, and his grandfather before him, back through the generations until you reach men whose names are lost and whose bones are in the soil you are standing on. The potato fields. God be good to us, the potato fields. Lazy beds cut straight as a gunwale, the ridges black and shining after a night of rain, women bent double with creels lashed to their backs and the children at their skirts, drawing the crop up by the hand for there was never any other means devised nor wanted. Hands split open at the knuckles and never entirely healed in this life. Hunger within living memory. Grandmothers who had seen the blight with their own eyes and would not speak of it from the year of it until the day they were laid down, save that a crust was kept always on the dresser which no soul in that house was permitted to touch. Not ever. Not for any reason under heaven. And the chimney sweeps. Wee lads no heavier than a sack of meal, black to the bone with soot, their lungs ruined before they were old enough to marry and old men entirely by thirty. Up the flues at first light, the skin worn off them by the brick, eyes crimson at the rim, breathing the black in with every draw of air. And the coal miners a half mile beneath our feet, down in the wet dark, the roof of the world muttering over their heads, the canary gone silent, a man's whole existence measured out in the shilling a ton and the dust he carried home in his chest to cough up of a Sunday morning into a rag. Fathers who descended and were never hauled up again. Widows at the pit head with the shawl drawn over the head and no tears remaining in them for they had spent those long ago. That was the tariff paid to keep the hearth lit. That was the reckoning of being warm in winter in the Ireland that was. And after the labouring week, Friday evening, and a man had earned the peace of what followed. Home first. Peeled the day off him in the yard. A shower of ice cold moor river water out of a tin bucket punctured with holes, hung on a nail on the gable wall, the water running clean down the back of him and carrying the week's dust and sweat away into the drain. Scrubbed till the skin was pink beneath the grime. Clean shirt laid out by the wife. The hair combed down with a drop of water. Then, and only then, did a man set himself to the table. A meat pie from the baker, tenpence if he was known to you, a shilling and no change if he was not, put down upon a proper plate. Fish and chips for threepence, the salt and vinegar soaked through the newspaper, but carried home and ate slowly at your own table with your people around you, not walked with through the streets like some vagrant tinker off the road. A man ate as a man who had earned his portion, for he had. And later, with the dishes cleared and the kettle set, down the road to the tavern. Low beams black with a century of smoke. A turf fire muttering in the grate. The air thick with pipe smoke and the vapour of wet overcoats steaming themselves dry on the backs of chairs. A pint of stout, cold and black as a cove at midnight, elevenpence laid down on the counter, a head on it thick enough to strike a match upon. A second one because you had it coming to you and no man present would dispute it. A fiddle starting up in the corner of its own accord. The old men in the snug who remembered matters the history books had long since mislaid. A song before the bolt was thrown on the door. The walk home beneath a firmament crowded with stars, the stout warm in the gut of you, the week behind you, and your own door waiting with the latch unlocked for you had no enemies in that parish. That was the country. That was the covenant. Honest labour, plain food, a cold wash, a hot meal, a cold pint, your own tongue in your own mouth, your own soil beneath your boots, and no man standing above you save the Almighty Himself. Now regard her. Regard her close. The fields disposed of to men who have never set foot upon them and never shall. The harbours signed away by the stroke of a pen in a room you were not admitted to, and foreign keels dragging out of our waters the living that sustained this island for a thousand years, while our own boats rot at their moorings for want of a quota. The tradesmen undercut by imported labour and imported goods. The shops shuttered along every main street from Donegal to Cork. The young ones scattered to London and Sydney and Boston and the Gulf because there is nothing remaining for them beneath their own roof. And the entirety of this rotten arrangement dressed up in the soft mannerly language of progress by men in towers of glass who could not tell a lazy bed from a grave, nor a trawler from a tugboat, nor an honest day's work from a pension plan. And now they arrive with the next imposition. A digital identity. A number assigned to each soul. A card required to buy your bread. A code required to draw your own earnings out of your own account. A file kept on every man, woman and child from the cradle forward. Permission asked to move. Permission asked to speak. Permission asked to earn. A levy upon every breath drawn and a regulation upon every step taken. No. And no again. And no for a third time so there is no misunderstanding of it. We do not require your digital identity. We did not request it. We did not vote upon it. We do not consent to it. We do not need your permission to exist upon the soil our forefathers are buried in. We are a free people. We have carried ourselves this far upon our own two backs. Through famine and empire and civil war and black lung and blight and the emigrant ship out of Cobh, we have come this distance under our own steam, and the arrangement appears to be serving us well enough without your intervention. We buried our own. We fed our own. We raised our own roofs and took our own fish and reared our own children in our own tongue. We are in your debt for nothing. Not a signature. Not a biometric scan. Not a single solitary inch. And while we are upon the subject, let us speak plainly of the tax man, for he has gone too long without proper introduction. The tax collector and the tax man are the one article under two names, and the article is a parasite. There is no dressing it up finer than that. A man who produces nothing, who grows nothing, who catches nothing, who builds nothing, who mends nothing, who has never in his professional life lifted anything heavier than a pen, and who arrives at your door with the full apparatus of the state at his back to carry off the fruits of labour he did not perform. He is a middleman between your sweat and some scheme dreamt up in a committee room by his own kind, and the great majority of what he takes is consumed by the machinery of the taking itself before ever a penny of it reaches the road or the hospital or the schoolhouse he claims to be funding. And I will go further while I have the floor. Finance itself, the whole apparatus of it, money breeding money in the dark without a hand laid upon a tool or a spade turned in the earth, is slavery dressed in a good suit. It is the oldest swindle known to man and it has never been anything other. A man who produces nothing yet lives off the productive labour of others through the charging of interest upon money conjured out of nothing is a parasite of a rarer and more refined order than the tax man, but a parasite all the same, and between the pair of them they have the working people of this island bled white and lectured at for the pleasure. A man who will not work with his hands, nor with his back, nor with his mind at some honest problem of the real physical world, is no man that I recognise. He is a ledger entry in a suit. The country was not built by ledger entries. The country was built by farmers and fishermen and masons and smiths and sweeps and miners and shipwrights and midwives and mothers, and those are the people whose say should carry in her councils, and no other. Here is what I put to you. Let each man and woman of this island direct the first tenth of their earnings themselves, by their own judgement, to the purpose they see as worthy. The school down the road. The lifeboat station. The hospice. The widow on the corner. The roof of the chapel. The harbour wall. Whatever it may be. Let the people who earned the money decide where the money travels. You will find the roads mended and the ports dredged and the schools standing and the old ones cared for inside of five years, and done better and for less, because the hand that earned the coin knows the weight of it and will not squander it upon consultants and committees. And let us have done with the paper currency and the numbers in a screen that can be frozen at the whim of a clerk in a tower. Bring back the coin. Gold for the great transactions. Silver for the weekly commerce of a working life. Copper for the small change of the day. Metal you can bite. Metal you can weigh. Metal that cannot be conjured out of nothing by a keystroke, nor erased out of existence by another. Real money for real labour. A coin in the hand is a free man's wage. A number in a database is a collar around a free man's neck, and they are fitting that collar now while we stand arguing over the colour of it. Feel it in your gut. That is not nothing. That is your blood relating to you what your ears will not hear. That is every forebear who starved and fought and coughed the black dust into a rag and descended the shaft regardless, standing at your shoulder and saying no further. Not one more field. Not one more harbour. Not one more son upon a plane. Not one more free man converted into a number in a ledger for the convenience of the parasites. This is the hour. Make no error about it. Ireland is redeemed in this generation or she is lost beyond recovery, and every true son and daughter of her knows it in the marrow. There is no middle ground remaining. There is no waiting it out. There is standing now, upon your own two feet, or there is watching her go under the waves for the last and final time. So stand. Stand with your farmers. Stand with your fishermen. Stand with your tradesmen and your miners and your sweeps and your mothers and your old ones. Raise the tricolour. Speak the tongue. Walk the land. Hold the line in the streets of every town and city and do not break it, for they are relying upon you to break and to go home and to forget by Tuesday. She is calling her children home. Every stone of her, every breaker on her western shore, every acre of wet heather and every coal in every hearth the length and breadth of her is calling. Answer her. Take her back. Every field, every harbour, every last inch of her. Take her back, or lose her entirely. There is no third road open to us.show more