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Showing posts with label sarnia de la mare. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sarnia de la mare. Show all posts

Nov 22, 2024

Countess Diaries Ch 20 Goddamn Media: A Noble Enterprise in a Modern World




Diary Entry: Goddamn Media: A Noble Enterprise in a Modern World

Ah, my dear world outside, another day has passed in this curious epoch I now call home. As the Countess of Brighton and Hackney, I often find myself marveling at the peculiarities of modern life, where social gatherings revolve around “Wi-Fi” rather than waltzes, and one’s reputation is built not upon lineage but on “content creation.” Despite my 16th-century sensibilities, I have taken to this era with aplomb—or so I like to think—and nowhere is this more evident than in my burgeoning empire: Goddamn Media.
A Radio Revolution

The radio station, much like my palace, is a hub of artistic expression, albeit one steeped in the curious glow of neon and the hum of technology. By day, we feature the voices of bright-eyed students, their earnest enthusiasm a charming counterpoint to my own polished broadcasts. By night, I transform into a sultry siren of the airwaves, a midnight anchor whose voice, I am told, has a rather hypnotic quality.

During these nocturnal hours, I play local and unsigned tracks, lending my regal endorsement to Brighton’s vibrant music scene. “You are listening,” I intone in my most velvety tones, “to the Countess’s Midnight Hour, where the music is as moody as the moonlight.” I imagine myself akin to a 16th-century bard, weaving tales and melodies to captivate my loyal subjects—though admittedly, my lute-playing days are long behind me.

The breakfast show is an entirely different affair. Here, I trade sultry for spirited, introducing more famous bands and engaging in what the modern world calls “banter.” It is a delicate balance, maintaining the Countess’s dignity while discussing which bassist is dating whom, but I manage. “Even nobility must keep up with the times,” I remind myself, often with a wry smile.
An Unlikely Legacy

It is still something of a marvel to me that Goddamn Media, with its eclectic programming and ragtag team of creatives, has struck such a chord with Brighton’s populace. When I first arrived in this century (ahem), I expected my noble bearing to be met with reverence, not skepticism. Yet, as word of the station has spread, I find myself greeted not with quizzical looks but with warm enthusiasm.

“Countess!” someone called out to me today as I passed a café. “Loved your show last night!”

I turned, delighted, and replied, “Why, thank you, my dear subject!” They laughed, though whether at my words or the feathered hat I was wearing is anyone’s guess.
Students and Surprises

The student shows, while not always polished, are a particular delight. Their youthful passion reminds me of the court poets I once patronized—idealistic, ambitious, and occasionally incomprehensible. One young presenter, bless his heart, dedicated an entire hour to a genre he called “ambient screamo.” I smiled and nodded as he explained it to me, though I’m quite certain he was speaking a foreign language.

And then there are the technical mishaps. Just last week, a student accidentally broadcast their shopping list instead of their setlist. “Peanut butter, oat milk, toilet rolls,” played over the airwaves for a full two minutes before anyone noticed. I, of course, turned it into a moment of charm: “Even royalty needs the essentials,” I quipped, swiftly reclaiming the mic.
A Palace of the People

Goddamn Media, much like the Brighton Arts Club, has become a palace of the people—a place where creativity reigns and hierarchy takes a back seat to talent. I like to think of myself as its patron and protector, a modern-day Medici with a penchant for experimental art and obscure soundscapes.

And yet, there are moments when my noble origins assert themselves. I often find myself rearranging the station’s décor, replacing the minimalist aesthetic with touches of grandeur: a gilded frame here, a velvet cushion there. After all, even a radio station deserves a bit of regality.
Closing Thoughts

As I sip my post-broadcast wine (a fine vintage, naturally), I reflect on how far we’ve come. Goddamn Media is no longer just a station; it is a movement, a testament to the power of creativity and community. And while I may hail from the 16th century—or at least channel its spirit—I find myself increasingly at home in this peculiar, modern world.

Tomorrow, my dear listeners, we broadcast again. Until then, I remain your Countess of the Airwaves, forever in pursuit of beauty, brilliance, and the perfect playlist.


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Ch 17 The Baron: Gangster Aspirations and Family Complications

 

Diary Entry: The Baron: Gangster Aspirations and Family Complications

Ah, The Baron—my beloved offspring, heir to my eccentricities, and, alas, a man whose criminal endeavors would struggle to impress even the most lenient of amateur dramatics clubs. His latest incarceration, while undoubtedly inconvenient, has offered me ample opportunity to reflect on his many peculiarities, not least of which is his unshakable belief that he is some sort of underworld kingpin.

The Cray Twin That Wasn’t

The Baron has always harbored a fascination with the notorious Cray twins, though his resemblance to them is purely aspirational. Where they were cunning and fearsome, The Baron is more... absent-minded. His latest escapade, which involved attempting to sell knock-off designer trainers from the boot of his car in a parking lot that happened to be directly opposite a police station, was a masterclass in criminal ineptitude.

“Mother,” he said on the phone this morning, his voice dripping with indignation, “it was a setup. The feds were waitingfor me.”

“Darling,” I replied, stifling a laugh, “you parked in front of their building. They didn’t need to wait—they just strolled out the door.”

Undeterred, he went on to describe his grand plans for a post-prison empire. “When I’m out, I’m going to build my crew. No one’s going to touch us.”

“Of course,” I said, indulging him. “And will this crew come with a better sense of parking?”

The Hood That Isn’t

The Baron’s other great delusion is his belief that he embodies the spirit of urban street culture. Despite his decidedly middle-class upbringing in Brighton and his inability to distinguish between grime and jazz, he insists on speaking in a hybrid dialect that can only be described as “posh-urban.” His sentences are peppered with phrases like “ya get me, yeah?” delivered in tones that suggest he is quoting a film he half-watched once.

He often tells me, with great solemnity, that he is “keeping it real.” Real what, I have yet to determine.

The Ghost of His Father

Of course, The Baron’s identity crisis may well be rooted in the enigma of his father, a figure who remains more legend than memory. The man—an Afrikaans businessman whose brief union with me was fueled by vodka and questionable judgment—disappeared from our lives long before The Baron’s first encounter with detention. I often wonder if this absence drives The Baron’s need to reinvent himself, though I would never say so aloud.

“What was he like?” The Baron asked me once, during a rare moment of vulnerability.

“Handsome,” I said, with a wistful sigh. “And terrible with money.”

“Sounds like me,” he said, his face lighting up. “I’m gonna live up to his name.”

“Well,” I replied, “perhaps leave the vodka and the disappearing act behind, darling. I think we’ve had enough of that legacy.”

A Mother’s Love

Despite his flaws—and there are many—The Baron is, in his own way, endearing. He approaches life with a reckless optimism that I can’t help but admire, even as it lands him in hot water. And though his ambitions may be misguided, they are undeniably ambitious. He doesn’t just want to be a criminal; he wants to be a legendary one. That level of commitment, however misplaced, deserves a certain amount of respect.

And so, as I sit here tonight, I raise my glass (filled with something far too strong for sensible mothers) to The Baron. May he one day find a path that suits him better—perhaps one that doesn’t involve polyester sheets or poorly executed heists. Until then, he’ll always have my love, my exasperation, and, when necessary, my bail money.


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