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Genius dust pollution control strategy, sprinkle water, take photos, waste money. Instead of removing roadside mud and debris, babus send tankers with sprinklers to wet the dirt. Dust stops for 20 minutes,Water wasted,muddy dirt makes road slippery So who are these babus approving cosmetic solutions over permanent fixes? it’s... show more

Woke Eminent

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68,191 просмотров • 6 месяцев назад •via X (Twitter)

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Your Anger is Racist! Labour’s Tone-Deaf Response to Northern Ireland Unrest 🤨 So this is Labour’s line: the disorder in Northern Ireland after a Sudanese asylum seeker allegedly tried to behead a man in the street? Just “racist riots”. That’s what the government have decided. It’s all racism. Everything is kicking off again because these people are just racist thugs. Nothing to do with watching someone butchered in the street by a migrant. Nothing to do with communities being ignored by the politicians who are supposed to represent them, while unvetted fighting-age foreign men are flooded into their areas. Nothing to do with crime after crime. Nothing to do with our daughters being targeted on a daily basis. We never wanted mass immigration. We vote against it at every opportunity. But they force it through anyway and then act shocked when anger spills over after scenes like the near-beheading in Belfast. It’s easy for Hilary Benn and the government to just call everyone racist instead of addressing the actual problem. But that only makes people angrier. They just don’t learn. They will never learn. As we saw with the murder of Henry Nowak, too many in government and the institutions see everything through the prism of race while ignoring the root causes staring them in the face. Time to face reality before this gets worse.

Your Anger is Racist! Labour’s Tone-Deaf Response to Northern Ireland Unrest 🤨 So this is Labour’s line: the disorder in Northern Ireland after a Sudanese asylum seeker allegedly tried to behead a man in the street? Just “racist riots”. That’s what the government have decided. It’s all racism. Everything is kicking off again because these people are just racist thugs. Nothing to do with watching someone butchered in the street by a migrant. Nothing to do with communities being ignored by the politicians who are supposed to represent them, while unvetted fighting-age foreign men are flooded into their areas. Nothing to do with crime after crime. Nothing to do with our daughters being targeted on a daily basis. We never wanted mass immigration. We vote against it at every opportunity. But they force it through anyway and then act shocked when anger spills over after scenes like the near-beheading in Belfast. It’s easy for Hilary Benn and the government to just call everyone racist instead of addressing the actual problem. But that only makes people angrier. They just don’t learn. They will never learn. As we saw with the murder of Henry Nowak, too many in government and the institutions see everything through the prism of race while ignoring the root causes staring them in the face. Time to face reality before this gets worse.

J Stewart

55,896 просмотров • 2 месяцев назад

I just built a Claude skill that audits your entire Google Ads account in under 5 minutes 🤯 One prompt → a full account score, wasted spend breakdown, and a prioritized fix list telling you exactly what to change this week. All inside Claude Cowork. Perfect for DTC brands and agencies who are running Google Ads but have no idea how much budget is leaking. If you're managing Google Ads and your "optimization" process is logging in, staring at the dashboard, sorting by cost, and hoping you spot the problem before it costs you another $500... This audit skill finds it for you: → Connects to your live Google Ads data via MCP → Scores your account across 6 dimensions: wasted spend, search term quality, keyword health, quality scores, budget allocation, and creative performance → Calculates your exact wasted spend in dollars — search terms burning budget with zero conversions → Flags quality score issues dragging up your CPCs → Identifies keyword cannibalization across campaigns → Surfaces your top 5 highest-priority fixes ranked by budget impact → Generates a clean audit report you can hand to a client or share with your team No CSV exports. No pivot tables. No guessing where the money went. What you get: → A single Claude skill file you install once → An account health score (0-100) every time you run it → Exact dollar amount of wasted spend identified → Prioritized action list — not "optimize your account," but "pause these 12 search terms and save $847/month" → Works with any Google Ads account connected I'm giving away the full audit skill — the actual .md file you drop into Claude and run against your own account. Want it? Like this post Comment "SKILL" And I'll send it over (must be following so I can DM)

I just built a Claude skill that audits your entire Google Ads account in under 5 minutes 🤯 One prompt → a full account score, wasted spend breakdown, and a prioritized fix list telling you exactly what to change this week. All inside Claude Cowork. Perfect for DTC brands and agencies who are running Google Ads but have no idea how much budget is leaking. If you're managing Google Ads and your "optimization" process is logging in, staring at the dashboard, sorting by cost, and hoping you spot the problem before it costs you another $500... This audit skill finds it for you: → Connects to your live Google Ads data via MCP → Scores your account across 6 dimensions: wasted spend, search term quality, keyword health, quality scores, budget allocation, and creative performance → Calculates your exact wasted spend in dollars — search terms burning budget with zero conversions → Flags quality score issues dragging up your CPCs → Identifies keyword cannibalization across campaigns → Surfaces your top 5 highest-priority fixes ranked by budget impact → Generates a clean audit report you can hand to a client or share with your team No CSV exports. No pivot tables. No guessing where the money went. What you get: → A single Claude skill file you install once → An account health score (0-100) every time you run it → Exact dollar amount of wasted spend identified → Prioritized action list — not "optimize your account," but "pause these 12 search terms and save $847/month" → Works with any Google Ads account connected I'm giving away the full audit skill — the actual .md file you drop into Claude and run against your own account. Want it? Like this post Comment "SKILL" And I'll send it over (must be following so I can DM)

Mike Futia

60,076 просмотров • 5 месяцев назад

1️⃣ I did everything I could for Ritual I made all kinds of contributions. For 8 months, I contributed to Ritual, but I am extremely disappointed with their system. I made 181 contributions on X, bought Canva Premium to design infographics, and sent almost 17,000 messages. Despite all this, I have been permanently ignored for 8 months. Two of my friends, Ashish.Base.eth (❖,❖) (230 contributions) and KUNDAN (150 contributions), are facing the same treatment. Because of this unfair and favoritism based system, I decided to post on Twitter to expose it. When we raised our voice after 6 months of hard work and 150+ contributions, the so called Indian community handlers and famous team members labeled it as FUD and continued ignoring us. 2️⃣ When we asked the Indian community handlers why we were not given roles after 8 months, they said: “We can’t do anything, the team decides.” But when we contacted the team or mods, they said: “Go back to the Indian community handlers, they will help you.” If these handlers and big mods really can’t do anything, then why are they even here? They are here to build connections This system has been making fun of me and other hard working contributors. 3️⃣ Now look at the people who received roles based on “quality contributions.” Everything is available with proof. One person (Yaneul) got a role with only 15 very low quality contributions (mostly food and event screenshots). He even got Ritualist with just 25 contributions. This clearly shows either connections were used or it could be a mod’s second account. Another person (placboeffect) got a role with just 9 contributions. Many people received roles at 35, 40, 50, 55, 60 contributions, while I had 181 contributions. This is what they call “quality contributions.” 4️⃣ Now decide yourself: Who contributed more? Who worked harder? People contributing for 8 months to 1 year are ignored, while others get roles at 9 or 25 contributions. Yes, we may have wasted our time, but we did work hard. 5️⃣ I didn’t want to come to X. but after contributing like a mad person and getting ignored, I don’t want to waste my time anymore. 6️⃣ I don’t know if the Josh (❖,❖) admin is aware of how mods and team are damaging this project Claire (❖,❖) she just help her country mates doesn't care about other people. 7️⃣ What’s the worst that can happen? They will ban me, and my 8 months of contributions will be wasted. There was never respect for real contributors anyway. If I had good connections with mods, I wouldn’t have struggled this much. It’s not like Ritual is my life, or Web3 has only Ritual, or they gave me any role to take back. Now I will openly speak on X without fear. 8️⃣ Some fearful people will read this post. They know everything that’s happening, but they won’t comment because they are scared. I understand their fear. --- 9️⃣ Best of luck to those who keep working blindly despite seeing all this. And special luck to those who have roles because of good connections with mods. --- 🔟 Last The so called Indian community handlers are only mods by name. One of them is a paid event manager, doing the job only for money. Another handler sends one message after 10 days. These are the people leading us in Ritual, who don’t even know what they’re doing. Jez ritual/acc (❖,❖) dunken(ritual/acc) (❖,❖) Stefan | Mad Scientist (❖,❖) Hinata Sir W A R D E N you are mod in Donut and Dhillon saab π² you are mod at data haven, Choudhary (Ø,G) ꧁IP꧂ you are mod at Capx and sir Botsan (capx arc) you are Admin of Capx You should learn from ritual mods how to ignore real contributors and how to promote favourtism

1️⃣ I did everything I could for Ritual I made all kinds of contributions. For 8 months, I contributed to Ritual, but I am extremely disappointed with their system. I made 181 contributions on X, bought Canva Premium to design infographics, and sent almost 17,000 messages. Despite all this, I have been permanently ignored for 8 months. Two of my friends, Ashish.Base.eth (❖,❖) (230 contributions) and KUNDAN (150 contributions), are facing the same treatment. Because of this unfair and favoritism based system, I decided to post on Twitter to expose it. When we raised our voice after 6 months of hard work and 150+ contributions, the so called Indian community handlers and famous team members labeled it as FUD and continued ignoring us. 2️⃣ When we asked the Indian community handlers why we were not given roles after 8 months, they said: “We can’t do anything, the team decides.” But when we contacted the team or mods, they said: “Go back to the Indian community handlers, they will help you.” If these handlers and big mods really can’t do anything, then why are they even here? They are here to build connections This system has been making fun of me and other hard working contributors. 3️⃣ Now look at the people who received roles based on “quality contributions.” Everything is available with proof. One person (Yaneul) got a role with only 15 very low quality contributions (mostly food and event screenshots). He even got Ritualist with just 25 contributions. This clearly shows either connections were used or it could be a mod’s second account. Another person (placboeffect) got a role with just 9 contributions. Many people received roles at 35, 40, 50, 55, 60 contributions, while I had 181 contributions. This is what they call “quality contributions.” 4️⃣ Now decide yourself: Who contributed more? Who worked harder? People contributing for 8 months to 1 year are ignored, while others get roles at 9 or 25 contributions. Yes, we may have wasted our time, but we did work hard. 5️⃣ I didn’t want to come to X. but after contributing like a mad person and getting ignored, I don’t want to waste my time anymore. 6️⃣ I don’t know if the Josh (❖,❖) admin is aware of how mods and team are damaging this project Claire (❖,❖) she just help her country mates doesn't care about other people. 7️⃣ What’s the worst that can happen? They will ban me, and my 8 months of contributions will be wasted. There was never respect for real contributors anyway. If I had good connections with mods, I wouldn’t have struggled this much. It’s not like Ritual is my life, or Web3 has only Ritual, or they gave me any role to take back. Now I will openly speak on X without fear. 8️⃣ Some fearful people will read this post. They know everything that’s happening, but they won’t comment because they are scared. I understand their fear. --- 9️⃣ Best of luck to those who keep working blindly despite seeing all this. And special luck to those who have roles because of good connections with mods. --- 🔟 Last The so called Indian community handlers are only mods by name. One of them is a paid event manager, doing the job only for money. Another handler sends one message after 10 days. These are the people leading us in Ritual, who don’t even know what they’re doing. Jez ritual/acc (❖,❖) dunken(ritual/acc) (❖,❖) Stefan | Mad Scientist (❖,❖) Hinata Sir W A R D E N you are mod in Donut and Dhillon saab π² you are mod at data haven, Choudhary (Ø,G) ꧁IP꧂ you are mod at Capx and sir Botsan (capx arc) you are Admin of Capx You should learn from ritual mods how to ignore real contributors and how to promote favourtism

Legend

12,873 просмотров • 6 месяцев назад

Chinese trader turned Polymarket into a money printer by Claude I’m not exaggerating. His results are honestly hard to believe: he started with $5 and scaled it to $5.5M He’s not an insider Not friends with Trump or Musk He’s a programmer who wrote a script Profile: Copytrading him: I opened his script and was genuinely surprised No massive databases No insanely complex infrastructure Nothing “rocket science” level I spent 16 hours breaking down his strategy His FULL strategy: 1. “Free money” via NO bets The bot targets near-impossible outcomes and stacks small, high-probability wins. This isn’t gambling - it’s closer to systematic risk underwriting. 2. Logic arbitrage If event A must logically lead to event B, and the market hasn’t priced that in yet, the bot enters instantly. While you’re still reading the headline, the imbalance is already gone. No human can compete with that speed. 3. The real edge - sports and politics These markets are flooded with retail money and delayed or emotional reactions. The bot lives in the spread, clipping tiny profits from every mismatch. Scale matters Tens of thousands of micro-trades every month, each worth just pennies. Stacked over time, they compound into seven figures. Bottom line There’s a real bot war happening on Polymarket. Crypto markets are already slowed down by fees and heavy competition, but sports markets are still pure chaos - easy money for those who automate. Save this post so you don’t lose it and try to insert this strategy into Claude You will be surprised

AdiiX

431,014 просмотров • 5 месяцев назад

🚨 THE PENTAGON JUST REVEALED ITS DEADLIEST WEAPON. THE MIDDLE EAST IS ABOUT TO BOIL OVER. 🚨 The U.S. Navy almost never reveals the location of its Ohio-class nuclear submarines. They are silent, untraceable doomsday machines built to project overwhelming power from the shadows. So when the Pentagon openly announces one just rolled into Gibraltar on its way to the Middle East, it isn’t a press release. It’s a direct threat. The ceasefire with Iran is officially on "massive life support" (Trump's words—he just called Tehran's latest peace offer "garbage"). Now, we are watching a terrifying underwater standoff brew in the world's most critical oil choke point. Iran’s surface navy was completely gutted by US-Israeli strikes last month. They know they can't survive a traditional naval war with the US. So, they are going full guerilla. Tehran just flooded the Strait of Hormuz with at least 16 "Ghadir-class" midget submarines. These aren't massive nuclear leviathans. They are tiny, cheap, and built for one thing: ambush. • Operated by crews of less than 10. • Packed with heavy torpedoes and Chinese-designed C-704 anti-ship cruise missiles. But the scariest part is their tactic: "Seabed-resting." Because the Persian Gulf is shallow and noisy, these mini-subs literally sink to the ocean floor, power down, and sit dead-silent in the mud. They just wait for a multi-billion dollar American destroyer to sail overhead, ready to pull the trigger. This is the ultimate asymmetric warfare. And the timing is absolutely deliberate. Trump is about to sit down with Xi Jinping. Iran is using Chinese-designed weapons to hold global oil shipping hostage right before the two superpowers meet in Beijing. It’s the ultimate David vs. Goliath setup, but with apocalyptic stakes: A $3 billion American doomsday machine vs. a swarm of trigger-ready mini-subs hiding in the dirt. If the US takes the bait and someone pulls a trigger in Hormuz, watch what happens to the global markets tomorrow.

🚨 THE PENTAGON JUST REVEALED ITS DEADLIEST WEAPON. THE MIDDLE EAST IS ABOUT TO BOIL OVER. 🚨 The U.S. Navy almost never reveals the location of its Ohio-class nuclear submarines. They are silent, untraceable doomsday machines built to project overwhelming power from the shadows. So when the Pentagon openly announces one just rolled into Gibraltar on its way to the Middle East, it isn’t a press release. It’s a direct threat. The ceasefire with Iran is officially on "massive life support" (Trump's words—he just called Tehran's latest peace offer "garbage"). Now, we are watching a terrifying underwater standoff brew in the world's most critical oil choke point. Iran’s surface navy was completely gutted by US-Israeli strikes last month. They know they can't survive a traditional naval war with the US. So, they are going full guerilla. Tehran just flooded the Strait of Hormuz with at least 16 "Ghadir-class" midget submarines. These aren't massive nuclear leviathans. They are tiny, cheap, and built for one thing: ambush. • Operated by crews of less than 10. • Packed with heavy torpedoes and Chinese-designed C-704 anti-ship cruise missiles. But the scariest part is their tactic: "Seabed-resting." Because the Persian Gulf is shallow and noisy, these mini-subs literally sink to the ocean floor, power down, and sit dead-silent in the mud. They just wait for a multi-billion dollar American destroyer to sail overhead, ready to pull the trigger. This is the ultimate asymmetric warfare. And the timing is absolutely deliberate. Trump is about to sit down with Xi Jinping. Iran is using Chinese-designed weapons to hold global oil shipping hostage right before the two superpowers meet in Beijing. It’s the ultimate David vs. Goliath setup, but with apocalyptic stakes: A $3 billion American doomsday machine vs. a swarm of trigger-ready mini-subs hiding in the dirt. If the US takes the bait and someone pulls a trigger in Hormuz, watch what happens to the global markets tomorrow.

Commentary Donald J. Trump Truth Social Posts On X

66,655 просмотров • 3 месяцев назад

One trader turned Polymarket into a money printer I’m not exaggerating. His results are honestly hard to believe: he started with $5 and scaled it to $3.7M He’s not an insider Not friends with Trump or Musk He’s a programmer who wrote a script Profile → → I opened his script and was genuinely surprised No massive databases No insanely complex infrastructure Nothing “rocket science” level I spent 5 hours breaking down his strategy His FULL strategy: 1. “Free money” via NO bets The bot targets near-impossible outcomes and stacks small, high-probability wins. This isn’t gambling - it’s closer to systematic risk underwriting. 2. Logic arbitrage If event A must logically lead to event B, and the market hasn’t priced that in yet, the bot enters instantly. While you’re still reading the headline, the imbalance is already gone. No human can compete with that speed. 3. The real edge - sports and politics These markets are flooded with retail money and delayed or emotional reactions. The bot lives in the spread, clipping tiny profits from every mismatch. Scale matters Tens of thousands of micro-trades every month, each worth just pennies. Stacked over time, they compound into seven figures. Bottom line There’s a real bot war happening on Polymarket. Crypto markets are already slowed down by fees and heavy competition, but sports markets are still pure chaos - easy money for those who automate.

winkle.

645,015 просмотров • 7 месяцев назад

One girl. One sword. One unstoppable dinosaur. ⚔️🦖 When courage meets the ultimate battle, legends are born. Created with MiniMax H3 Prompt: Create a 14-second ultra-realistic Hollywood-style action fantasy film scene featuring a brave young female warrior battling a massive realistic Tyrannosaurus Rex inside an ancient jungle filled with ruined temples, giant trees, mist, mud, rain, smoke, and dramatic sunlight. Visual Style: Premium Hollywood blockbuster, photorealistic, cinematic, epic scale, realistic human anatomy, realistic dinosaur skin and movement, dramatic lighting, detailed environment, natural physics, intense facial expressions, high-end VFX, ARRI Alexa 35 look, anamorphic lens, shallow depth of field, HDR, subtle film grain, 4K cinematic quality, dynamic camera movement, realistic motion blur. 0–2 seconds — Establishing Shot: Wide cinematic shot of an ancient jungle temple in the middle of a mysterious rainforest. The female warrior stands alone in the ruins, holding a large sword in one hand. Her clothes are rugged fantasy-warrior clothing, slightly wet from the rain. Mist moves through the trees while birds fly in the distant sky. Slow camera push-in toward her. 2–3 seconds — Hero Close-Up: Cut to a dramatic close-up of the girl's face. Her hair is slightly wet and moving in the wind. She looks determined and fearless. Small scratches and dirt are visible on her face. She slowly raises her sword and prepares for battle. 3–4 seconds — Dinosaur Reveal: Suddenly, a massive realistic T-Rex emerges from behind the jungle trees and roars aggressively. Its enormous jaws open, sharp teeth visible, water and mud splashing around its feet. Low-angle camera makes the dinosaur look huge and terrifying. 4–6 seconds — First Attack: The dinosaur charges toward the girl at full speed. She runs toward the side and performs a fast dodge at the last second. The dinosaur crashes through trees and debris behind her. Use handheld camera movement, fast tracking, realistic impact and flying dust. 6–8 seconds — Sword Counterattack: The girl quickly turns around and attacks with her sword. Show a dramatic slow-motion moment as she swings the sword toward the dinosaur. The dinosaur moves its head aggressively while roaring. Strong cinematic camera movement follows the sword. 8–10 seconds — Epic Jump: The dinosaur attacks again. The girl jumps onto a large fallen tree and then leaps into the air above the dinosaur. Her hair and clothing move naturally in slow motion. Camera rotates around her as she raises the sword for the final strike. 10–12 seconds — Final Strike: She lands a powerful cinematic sword strike against the dinosaur's armored hide. Create a dramatic impact with dust, rainwater, debris and strong camera shake. Keep the action non-gory and suitable for a blockbuster fantasy film. 12–13.5 seconds — Dinosaur Falls Back: The dinosaur loses balance and falls backward into the muddy ground with a huge impact. Water, dust and leaves fly into the air. The girl lands safely and stands ready, breathing heavily. 13.5–14 seconds — Hero Ending: Slow cinematic push-in toward the girl. She lowers the sword slightly and looks directly toward the camera with a powerful, fearless expression. Behind her, the defeated dinosaur lies in the misty jungle. Golden sunlight breaks through the clouds, creating an epic silhouette and emotional Hollywood-style ending. Camera & Cinematography: Wide establishing shots, low-angle dinosaur shots, close-up facial shots, handheld action camera, tracking shots, 360-degree movement during the jump, dramatic slow motion during key action moments, shallow depth of field for close-ups, realistic motion blur, cinematic composition. Lighting & Atmosphere: Dark stormy jungle atmosphere mixed with warm golden sunlight, volumetric light rays, wet surfaces, realistic rain, mist, smoke, flying leaves, dust and water particles.

One girl. One sword. One unstoppable dinosaur. ⚔️🦖 When courage meets the ultimate battle, legends are born. Created with MiniMax H3 Prompt: Create a 14-second ultra-realistic Hollywood-style action fantasy film scene featuring a brave young female warrior battling a massive realistic Tyrannosaurus Rex inside an ancient jungle filled with ruined temples, giant trees, mist, mud, rain, smoke, and dramatic sunlight. Visual Style: Premium Hollywood blockbuster, photorealistic, cinematic, epic scale, realistic human anatomy, realistic dinosaur skin and movement, dramatic lighting, detailed environment, natural physics, intense facial expressions, high-end VFX, ARRI Alexa 35 look, anamorphic lens, shallow depth of field, HDR, subtle film grain, 4K cinematic quality, dynamic camera movement, realistic motion blur. 0–2 seconds — Establishing Shot: Wide cinematic shot of an ancient jungle temple in the middle of a mysterious rainforest. The female warrior stands alone in the ruins, holding a large sword in one hand. Her clothes are rugged fantasy-warrior clothing, slightly wet from the rain. Mist moves through the trees while birds fly in the distant sky. Slow camera push-in toward her. 2–3 seconds — Hero Close-Up: Cut to a dramatic close-up of the girl's face. Her hair is slightly wet and moving in the wind. She looks determined and fearless. Small scratches and dirt are visible on her face. She slowly raises her sword and prepares for battle. 3–4 seconds — Dinosaur Reveal: Suddenly, a massive realistic T-Rex emerges from behind the jungle trees and roars aggressively. Its enormous jaws open, sharp teeth visible, water and mud splashing around its feet. Low-angle camera makes the dinosaur look huge and terrifying. 4–6 seconds — First Attack: The dinosaur charges toward the girl at full speed. She runs toward the side and performs a fast dodge at the last second. The dinosaur crashes through trees and debris behind her. Use handheld camera movement, fast tracking, realistic impact and flying dust. 6–8 seconds — Sword Counterattack: The girl quickly turns around and attacks with her sword. Show a dramatic slow-motion moment as she swings the sword toward the dinosaur. The dinosaur moves its head aggressively while roaring. Strong cinematic camera movement follows the sword. 8–10 seconds — Epic Jump: The dinosaur attacks again. The girl jumps onto a large fallen tree and then leaps into the air above the dinosaur. Her hair and clothing move naturally in slow motion. Camera rotates around her as she raises the sword for the final strike. 10–12 seconds — Final Strike: She lands a powerful cinematic sword strike against the dinosaur's armored hide. Create a dramatic impact with dust, rainwater, debris and strong camera shake. Keep the action non-gory and suitable for a blockbuster fantasy film. 12–13.5 seconds — Dinosaur Falls Back: The dinosaur loses balance and falls backward into the muddy ground with a huge impact. Water, dust and leaves fly into the air. The girl lands safely and stands ready, breathing heavily. 13.5–14 seconds — Hero Ending: Slow cinematic push-in toward the girl. She lowers the sword slightly and looks directly toward the camera with a powerful, fearless expression. Behind her, the defeated dinosaur lies in the misty jungle. Golden sunlight breaks through the clouds, creating an epic silhouette and emotional Hollywood-style ending. Camera & Cinematography: Wide establishing shots, low-angle dinosaur shots, close-up facial shots, handheld action camera, tracking shots, 360-degree movement during the jump, dramatic slow motion during key action moments, shallow depth of field for close-ups, realistic motion blur, cinematic composition. Lighting & Atmosphere: Dark stormy jungle atmosphere mixed with warm golden sunlight, volumetric light rays, wet surfaces, realistic rain, mist, smoke, flying leaves, dust and water particles.

liana

11,360 просмотров • 23 дней назад

I live in Buncombe County, where Asheville NC is located. I used to live in Asheville city proper, but moved further out, mainly due to crime. The city has fallen off a cliff, everyone knows it. Homeless people are EVERYWHERE, in every park, taking shits on the street, st*bbing people with needles, doing very little jail time. Almost every city park in Asheville is now overun with the homeless. They live there... in tents. Under pavilions. They do drugs and pass out and then scream at people. You cannot take your kids there, it's horrifying. ...and the city council has zero interest in fixing the problems because they have no incentive to do so The last Republican elected to city council in Asheville was in 2009 and there hasn't been another one since. All these people do are protest and posture and demand more in taxes. I was liberal and I was in favor of a lot of the policies, especially around homelessness... I was extremely sympathetic. Honestly? I still am sympathetic. But the solutions being offered are not solutions, they are shoveling money out the door to NGOs that have no incentives WHATSOEVER to fix the problems. All the incentives are align to keep homelessness alive and to make it even worse. Bus loads of homeless people arrive in Asheville for this VERY REASON. It's horrible for tourism, horrible for families... AND YES, it's horrible for the homeless too. It isn't kind to just pretend people can sleep on the streets and everything is ok. A HUGE NUMBER of homeless people were hit by cars last year, so much so that they banned begging for money on some city streets because SO MANY homeless were getting hit with cars. It's terrible. I once said the word, "homeless" here and someone got offended and said, "DO YOU MEAN THE UN-HOUSED?!!!!" So yeah, things are not great. But they will continue to vote for liberals who will keep these policies alive. They tried to defund the police too, they demonized them so severely that 40% of officers just left. Police officers come and talk to me all the time about how frustrated they are that they have to constantly arrest the same people over and over again. One officer said he literally arrests 3 generations of family criminals... IN ONE DAY. It breaks my heart because there are SO MANY good people here. I saw it first-hand after Hurricane Helene, people stepped up in a BIG WAY. The blue-haired libs worked along the red-truck MAGA to actually help people and I'll never forget how beautiful that was. ...but then Trump got elected and everything fell apart It started before Trump, but once he got elected, everyone forgot about helping victims of Helene and the liberals shifted to protesting the VERY SAME MAN WHO WAS HELPING THEIR CITY. It has made me sick to my stomach to watch protest after protest in Asheville... where the same people protesting likely drove over bridges, drove by homes, drove by communities that President Trump helped. It's disgusting and infuriating and makes me so sad.

I live in Buncombe County, where Asheville NC is located. I used to live in Asheville city proper, but moved further out, mainly due to crime. The city has fallen off a cliff, everyone knows it. Homeless people are EVERYWHERE, in every park, taking shits on the street, st*bbing people with needles, doing very little jail time. Almost every city park in Asheville is now overun with the homeless. They live there... in tents. Under pavilions. They do drugs and pass out and then scream at people. You cannot take your kids there, it's horrifying. ...and the city council has zero interest in fixing the problems because they have no incentive to do so The last Republican elected to city council in Asheville was in 2009 and there hasn't been another one since. All these people do are protest and posture and demand more in taxes. I was liberal and I was in favor of a lot of the policies, especially around homelessness... I was extremely sympathetic. Honestly? I still am sympathetic. But the solutions being offered are not solutions, they are shoveling money out the door to NGOs that have no incentives WHATSOEVER to fix the problems. All the incentives are align to keep homelessness alive and to make it even worse. Bus loads of homeless people arrive in Asheville for this VERY REASON. It's horrible for tourism, horrible for families... AND YES, it's horrible for the homeless too. It isn't kind to just pretend people can sleep on the streets and everything is ok. A HUGE NUMBER of homeless people were hit by cars last year, so much so that they banned begging for money on some city streets because SO MANY homeless were getting hit with cars. It's terrible. I once said the word, "homeless" here and someone got offended and said, "DO YOU MEAN THE UN-HOUSED?!!!!" So yeah, things are not great. But they will continue to vote for liberals who will keep these policies alive. They tried to defund the police too, they demonized them so severely that 40% of officers just left. Police officers come and talk to me all the time about how frustrated they are that they have to constantly arrest the same people over and over again. One officer said he literally arrests 3 generations of family criminals... IN ONE DAY. It breaks my heart because there are SO MANY good people here. I saw it first-hand after Hurricane Helene, people stepped up in a BIG WAY. The blue-haired libs worked along the red-truck MAGA to actually help people and I'll never forget how beautiful that was. ...but then Trump got elected and everything fell apart It started before Trump, but once he got elected, everyone forgot about helping victims of Helene and the liberals shifted to protesting the VERY SAME MAN WHO WAS HELPING THEIR CITY. It has made me sick to my stomach to watch protest after protest in Asheville... where the same people protesting likely drove over bridges, drove by homes, drove by communities that President Trump helped. It's disgusting and infuriating and makes me so sad.

Matt Van Swol

414,212 просмотров • 4 месяцев назад

This guy made $400K with his own script on Polymarket Yes, it’s true, the dude wrote a script using ClawdBot and now it earns him passive income No programming knowledge No insider tools for building the script Just a solid script that delivers results Profile → Copytrade → When I opened the code, I was genuinely surprised No massive databases No insanely complex infrastructure Nothing rocket-science level His FULL strategy: 1. “Low-Risk NO Plays” The bot targets near-impossible outcomes and stacks small, high-probability wins. This isn’t gambling, it’s closer to systematic risk underwriting. 2. Logical Price Gaps If event A must logically lead to event B and the market hasn’t priced that in yet, the bot enters instantly. While you’re still reading the headline, the imbalance is already gone. No human can compete with that speed. 3. Main Advantage - Sports and Politics These markets are flooded with retail money and delayed or emotional reactions. The bot lives in the spread, clipping tiny profits from every mismatch. Scale Effect Tens of thousands of micro-trades every month, each worth just a few cents. Over time they compound into seven-figure results. Final Take There’s a real bot war happening on Polymarket. Crypto markets are already slowed down by fees and heavy competition, but sports markets are still pure chaos, easy money for those who automate.

winkle.

57,003 просмотров • 6 месяцев назад

When the government is the economy, your financial suffering is their fault. Retail interest rates are predicted to skyrocket. Severe pain is incoming as the sluggish economy is about to get winded by a sucker punch. This is all driven by inflation that has almost nothing to do with discretionary spending – illustrated by the increasing din of roller shutters slamming shut for the last time on the high-street. Restaurants, cafes and bars - gone forever. They’re following the exit of long-established family businesses dropping like flies. Iconic clothing brands, manufacturing companies, and construction companies struggling to keep up with the increasing costs and declining consumer spending. Just a more amplified version of households busting to stay afloat, food, electricity, fuel, insurance and housing all running out of reach. People are hurting. The irony is that the only string holding up the false economy is the very thing causing the inflation that is destroying the real economy. Government spending. More specifically – government borrowing. Governments borrow printed money and spend it with the recklessness of a child buying gems to advance in a game on Mum’s iPhone. Using Mum’s credit card, without her knowing. Like the money isn’t real - and to them it isn’t. But it is to the rest of us who have to live in the real world, it really is. It’s just cruel. It’s one thing to borrow and invest in assets that provide returns, but using the credit card to buy skittles and beer normally comes with a hangover at some point. Welcome to the hangover. It’s as if Canberra has a giant black credit card with a tap and go facility. Mark Butler, the minister in charge of the NDIS has probably racked up the most loyalty points with the way he spends. Who knows what he will pick out of the post parliamentary reward points catalogue when he leaves. Next up would surely be Penny Wong, as she runs around the world tapping our credit card and showering other countries with the gifts we pay for, on borrowed money. Funding regimes like the Taliban… Don’t get me wrong, foreign aid has its place – and I think that is exclusively for our various island neighbours, and only when that is in this Nation’s interest. All the rest is just a waste of money, and a betrayal of the Australian people. Albanese and his team are just feckless and reckless, and Chalmers clearly thinks that spending borrowed money is the economy. It isn’t. Because when borrowed money is created, it is created without the interest (nobody ever prints the interest). But the interest always falls due. All our money supply is printed fiat currency. It’s not backed by anything. But if you are one dollar short on an interest bill – your assets can fall into the hands of the lender. Printed money buys real assets, and real assets are lost on foreclosure, as insiders often swoop in for cents in the dollar. It’s like a giant asset laundering scheme. More is always owed than was minted in the first place, because interest must be paid. So, there must be losers – that much is baked into the game - and as more people lose, more people collapse and even more assets are pooled in the hands of fewer people… and there’s the rub – eventually it all falls into the hands of the money printers and their mates. The system must have been designed by an insane clown. The only way out of this mess is to get rid of this government debt and return to sound money. All government debt just inflates assets – and the cost to hold them. Everything else is just a sideshow. They want us fighting over the gender of a toothpick that never ceded ownership of its tutu, so we don’t look at the rapid collapse of everything in real time. It is government debt and waste that is ruining Australia. Almost everything else is a distraction from the fact that there’s no more free money. I just want Australia back.

When the government is the economy, your financial suffering is their fault. Retail interest rates are predicted to skyrocket. Severe pain is incoming as the sluggish economy is about to get winded by a sucker punch. This is all driven by inflation that has almost nothing to do with discretionary spending – illustrated by the increasing din of roller shutters slamming shut for the last time on the high-street. Restaurants, cafes and bars - gone forever. They’re following the exit of long-established family businesses dropping like flies. Iconic clothing brands, manufacturing companies, and construction companies struggling to keep up with the increasing costs and declining consumer spending. Just a more amplified version of households busting to stay afloat, food, electricity, fuel, insurance and housing all running out of reach. People are hurting. The irony is that the only string holding up the false economy is the very thing causing the inflation that is destroying the real economy. Government spending. More specifically – government borrowing. Governments borrow printed money and spend it with the recklessness of a child buying gems to advance in a game on Mum’s iPhone. Using Mum’s credit card, without her knowing. Like the money isn’t real - and to them it isn’t. But it is to the rest of us who have to live in the real world, it really is. It’s just cruel. It’s one thing to borrow and invest in assets that provide returns, but using the credit card to buy skittles and beer normally comes with a hangover at some point. Welcome to the hangover. It’s as if Canberra has a giant black credit card with a tap and go facility. Mark Butler, the minister in charge of the NDIS has probably racked up the most loyalty points with the way he spends. Who knows what he will pick out of the post parliamentary reward points catalogue when he leaves. Next up would surely be Penny Wong, as she runs around the world tapping our credit card and showering other countries with the gifts we pay for, on borrowed money. Funding regimes like the Taliban… Don’t get me wrong, foreign aid has its place – and I think that is exclusively for our various island neighbours, and only when that is in this Nation’s interest. All the rest is just a waste of money, and a betrayal of the Australian people. Albanese and his team are just feckless and reckless, and Chalmers clearly thinks that spending borrowed money is the economy. It isn’t. Because when borrowed money is created, it is created without the interest (nobody ever prints the interest). But the interest always falls due. All our money supply is printed fiat currency. It’s not backed by anything. But if you are one dollar short on an interest bill – your assets can fall into the hands of the lender. Printed money buys real assets, and real assets are lost on foreclosure, as insiders often swoop in for cents in the dollar. It’s like a giant asset laundering scheme. More is always owed than was minted in the first place, because interest must be paid. So, there must be losers – that much is baked into the game - and as more people lose, more people collapse and even more assets are pooled in the hands of fewer people… and there’s the rub – eventually it all falls into the hands of the money printers and their mates. The system must have been designed by an insane clown. The only way out of this mess is to get rid of this government debt and return to sound money. All government debt just inflates assets – and the cost to hold them. Everything else is just a sideshow. They want us fighting over the gender of a toothpick that never ceded ownership of its tutu, so we don’t look at the rapid collapse of everything in real time. It is government debt and waste that is ruining Australia. Almost everything else is a distraction from the fact that there’s no more free money. I just want Australia back.

Matthew Camenzuli

31,362 просмотров • 7 месяцев назад

The Truth About Kate Middleton's Alleged Cancer and Lavish Lifestyle My mother died of cancer, as did my stepmother, so I have first-hand, close-up knowledge of what the disease can do to one’s loved ones. I know the signs of different kinds of cancers, and let me tell you, no cancer is good. No cancer leaves you looking like a Vogue model as Kate Middleton claims she has. Taxpayers in the UK fund the lavish lifestyle of the Royal Family, so if one of them disappears for six months and allows all kinds of lies to circulate about her strange disappearance, she needs to tell the British public what cancer she has and why this cancer has left her looking ten years younger. Anyone could see by looking at her that she had plastic surgery and Botox to look ten years younger. Kate Middleton in 2024 is not the same haggard, aging Kate Middleton from 2023, also known as Her Royal Highness the Princess of Wales. Neither my mother nor stepmother had the time or inclination to undergo a facelift while they were undergoing chemotherapy, which Kate calls preventive measures. It’s all a load of baloney, and the British press is having a field day spreading this nonsensical explanation, saying she’s the star of the family. Without Kate, the Royal Family is nothing, and other tripe like this. It’s a disgrace. It’s bringing the whole institution into disrepute with fake photos, fake sightings, mad conspiracy stories, and now the facelift! I was educated to respect these people. My father, as a Queen’s Counsel and Senior Crown Counsel, prosecuted people in the name of the late Queen, for God’s sake, so it’s not like I am a crazy republican. No, I am not. I am just not going to roll over and applaud a situation that needs to be condemned. No one else in the United Kingdom can take off for six months, abandon the job they are paid to do, and return to the office looking like a front-page model and receive adoration. No woman in the aristocracy wants to marry a Windsor anymore, not after what they did to Diana Spencer, one of their own. It’s the desperate social climbers who are saying "I do" to the men in that family, women who are looking for the glamour and luxury that Tunbridge Wells or the council estate their mothers grew up on just don’t have. So please, give me a break with the heroics, and tell us in detail what you are suffering from, what treatment you are getting, and why you find it necessary to play mind games with your so-called subjects. I, for one, think it’s time to change the leadership of the Commonwealth and get rid of the Windsors. It’s the British public’s business if they want to keep these people in Palaces and on thrones not mine , but it’s an expensive soap opera to be paying a lot of hard earned money for , that’s for sure. #RoyalFamily #KateMiddleton #CancerAwareness #PlasticSurgery #UKPolitics #BritishMonarchy #Commonwealth #Accountability #TruthMatters

The Truth About Kate Middleton's Alleged Cancer and Lavish Lifestyle My mother died of cancer, as did my stepmother, so I have first-hand, close-up knowledge of what the disease can do to one’s loved ones. I know the signs of different kinds of cancers, and let me tell you, no cancer is good. No cancer leaves you looking like a Vogue model as Kate Middleton claims she has. Taxpayers in the UK fund the lavish lifestyle of the Royal Family, so if one of them disappears for six months and allows all kinds of lies to circulate about her strange disappearance, she needs to tell the British public what cancer she has and why this cancer has left her looking ten years younger. Anyone could see by looking at her that she had plastic surgery and Botox to look ten years younger. Kate Middleton in 2024 is not the same haggard, aging Kate Middleton from 2023, also known as Her Royal Highness the Princess of Wales. Neither my mother nor stepmother had the time or inclination to undergo a facelift while they were undergoing chemotherapy, which Kate calls preventive measures. It’s all a load of baloney, and the British press is having a field day spreading this nonsensical explanation, saying she’s the star of the family. Without Kate, the Royal Family is nothing, and other tripe like this. It’s a disgrace. It’s bringing the whole institution into disrepute with fake photos, fake sightings, mad conspiracy stories, and now the facelift! I was educated to respect these people. My father, as a Queen’s Counsel and Senior Crown Counsel, prosecuted people in the name of the late Queen, for God’s sake, so it’s not like I am a crazy republican. No, I am not. I am just not going to roll over and applaud a situation that needs to be condemned. No one else in the United Kingdom can take off for six months, abandon the job they are paid to do, and return to the office looking like a front-page model and receive adoration. No woman in the aristocracy wants to marry a Windsor anymore, not after what they did to Diana Spencer, one of their own. It’s the desperate social climbers who are saying "I do" to the men in that family, women who are looking for the glamour and luxury that Tunbridge Wells or the council estate their mothers grew up on just don’t have. So please, give me a break with the heroics, and tell us in detail what you are suffering from, what treatment you are getting, and why you find it necessary to play mind games with your so-called subjects. I, for one, think it’s time to change the leadership of the Commonwealth and get rid of the Windsors. It’s the British public’s business if they want to keep these people in Palaces and on thrones not mine , but it’s an expensive soap opera to be paying a lot of hard earned money for , that’s for sure. #RoyalFamily #KateMiddleton #CancerAwareness #PlasticSurgery #UKPolitics #BritishMonarchy #Commonwealth #Accountability #TruthMatters

Kio Amachree

461,989 просмотров • 2 лет назад

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.

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.

SiriusB

15,437 просмотров • 4 месяцев назад

The modern gym has an ADHD problem. Not a clinical one. A cultural one. People walk in and they cannot stop moving. They cannot be seen resting. They superset because the 90 seconds it would take to recover between sets is somehow wasteful. They rotate between stations so the equipment never goes cold. They bring a programme that involves six exercises in four different corners of the gym. They carry their water bottle like it's a prop that justifies the constant transit. The gym floor looks like a man who cannot sit down and doesn't know why. Here is what they are doing. They are prioritising the appearance of productivity over the conditions required for productive training. A quality set of 5 reps at a challenging load, close to failure, followed by three minutes of deliberate rest, followed by another quality set, is boring to watch. Nothing is happening for three minutes. Someone might think you're not serious. Someone might take your bar. So instead: constant movement. Constant evidence of effort. 60-second rests. Supersets. A session that looks like work and delivers approximately the same stimulus as the brief, unfashionable version: but in 90 minutes, with twice the joint stress and a level of systemic fatigue that competes with recovery for the rest of the week. Heavy. Four to six reps. Straight sets. Three minutes rest. Four exercises. You could do this in an hour. You would make more progress than the man who hasn't stopped moving since he got here. You would also have an hour back. The stillness is not laziness. The stillness is the mechanism. Sit down. Rest properly. Pick up the heavy thing again.

The modern gym has an ADHD problem. Not a clinical one. A cultural one. People walk in and they cannot stop moving. They cannot be seen resting. They superset because the 90 seconds it would take to recover between sets is somehow wasteful. They rotate between stations so the equipment never goes cold. They bring a programme that involves six exercises in four different corners of the gym. They carry their water bottle like it's a prop that justifies the constant transit. The gym floor looks like a man who cannot sit down and doesn't know why. Here is what they are doing. They are prioritising the appearance of productivity over the conditions required for productive training. A quality set of 5 reps at a challenging load, close to failure, followed by three minutes of deliberate rest, followed by another quality set, is boring to watch. Nothing is happening for three minutes. Someone might think you're not serious. Someone might take your bar. So instead: constant movement. Constant evidence of effort. 60-second rests. Supersets. A session that looks like work and delivers approximately the same stimulus as the brief, unfashionable version: but in 90 minutes, with twice the joint stress and a level of systemic fatigue that competes with recovery for the rest of the week. Heavy. Four to six reps. Straight sets. Three minutes rest. Four exercises. You could do this in an hour. You would make more progress than the man who hasn't stopped moving since he got here. You would also have an hour back. The stillness is not laziness. The stillness is the mechanism. Sit down. Rest properly. Pick up the heavy thing again.

Sama Hoole

18,516 просмотров • 5 месяцев назад