Newcastle Quotes

Hi, my name is Kurt Cobain, I'm homosexual, I'm a pagan, I'm a drug abuser, and I like to fuck pot-bellied pigs!

Writing imaginative tales for the young is like sending coals to Newcastle. For coals.

there is little difference between man and beast, but what ambition and glory makes.

A good day's filming at last... John Horton's rabbit effects are superb. A really vicious white rabbit, which bites Sir Bor's head off. Much of the ground lost over the week is made up. We listen to the Cup Final in between fighting the rabbit -- Liverpool beat Newcastle 3-0.

In Newcastle, Kurt announced from the stage, “I am a homosexual, I am a drug user, and I fuck pot-bellied pigs,” another classic Cobainism, though only one of his three claims was true.

I am not covetous, but as ambitious as ever any of my sex was, is, or can be; which makes, that though I cannot be Henry the Fifth, or Charles the Second, yet I endeavour to be Margaret the First; and although I have neither power, time, not occasion to conquer the world as Alexander and Caesar did; yet rather than not be mistress of one, since Fortune and Fates would give me none, I have made a world of my own; for which nobody, I hope, will blame me, since it is in everyone's power to do the like.

...though I have neither Power, Time nor Occasion, to be a great Conqueror, like Alexander, or Cesar; yet, rather than not be Mistress of a World, since Fortune and the Fates would give me none, I have made One of my own. And thus, believing, or, at least, hoping, that no Creature can, or will, Envy me for this World of mine, I remain, Noble Ladies, Your Humble Servant, M. Newcastle.

We’re not from the same Britain,” Geoffrey said. “I don’t come from your grandfather’s Great Britain. I come from a rat-infested, coal-filled hole in England called Newcastle. My people were all miners, domestics, and dung shovelers.

Unemployed people will use any number of excuses including discrimination for reasons such as disability, race, sexual orientation, religion, sex or age, or maybe there’s a shortage of jobs in their area. Well if that’s the case then they can travel to wherever the work is and go into digs. I work in construction management and regularly work with steel erectors from Ireland or Newcastle, electricians from Cardiff, fixers from Sheffield or Birmingham, steel fixers from Romania, carpenters from Poland, canteen girls from Romania, scaffolders from Lithuania, and concrete gangs of Indians, and they all travel wherever the work is and they all live in digs. We all do. It’s the nature of our industry.

On Westminster Bridge, Arthur was struck by the brightness of the streetlamps running across like a formation of stars. They shone white against the black coats of the marching gentlefold and fuller than the moon against the fractal spires of Westminster. They were, Arthur quickly realized, the new electric lights, which the city government was installing, avenue by avenue, square by square, in place of the dirty gas lamps that had lit London's public spaces for a century. These new electric ones were brighter. They were cheaper. They required less maintenance. And they shone farther into the dime evening, exposing every crack in the pavement, every plump turtle sheel of stone underfoot. So long to the faint chiaroscuro of London, to the ladies and gentlemen in black-on-black relief. So long to the era of mist and carbonized Newcastle coal, to the stench of the Blackfriars foundry. Welcome to the cleasing glare of the twentieth century.

Should my decease happen in Newcastle I desire that my remains may be laid near the south porch in Saint Andrews churchyard near the remains of my dear wife, and that the least possible expence may be laid out on my interment. Charles Avison

What is a club in any case? Not the buildings or the directors or the people who are paid to represent it. It’s not the television contracts, get-out clauses, marketing departments or executive boxes. It’s the noise, the passion, the feeling of belonging, the pride in your city. It’s a small boy clambering up stadium steps for the very first time, gripping his father’s hand, gawping at that hallowed stretch of turf beneath him and, without being able to do a thing about it, falling in love.

Shakespeare’s first critic was a woman. In 1664 Margaret Cavendish, the eccentric Duchess of Newcastle sometimes known as “Mad Madge,” wrote the first critical prose essay on Shakespeare, marveling at his ability to dissolve entirely into his characters—to embody them, even the women.

Tim and Andy stood there in head-to-toe leather motocross outfits, covered in road dust, behind me in a dark corner of the hotel’s dining room. Tim has penetrating pale blue eyes with tiny pupils, and the accent of an Englishman from the north – Newcastle, or Leeds maybe. Andy is an American with blond hair and the wholesome, well-fed good looks and accent of the Midwest. Behind them, two high-performance dirt bikes leaned on kickstands in the Hang Meas’ parking lot.      Tim owns a bar/restaurant in Siemreap. Andy is his chef. Go to the end of the world and apparently there will be an American chef there waiting for you.

Tyneside Ships of Steel, built by Iron Men, old skills now lost forever, hang your heads... and weep for them.

A monster can be created because we look the other way when a domestic crime is being committed. Taking no action will get a reaction, causing a tidal wave of consequence "....... D. H . Jarrett

Trevor J. Saunders, late Professor of Greek at Newcastle University, put things most succinctly in his introduction to Aristotle’s Politics: ‘The society that loses its grip on the past is in danger, for it produces men who know nothing but the present, and who are not aware that life has been, and could be, different from what it is. Such men bear tyranny easily; for they have nothing with which to compare it.

Born in Benin, Nigeria, Onyi Nwabineli grew up in Glasgow, the Isle of Man and Newcastle and now lives in London. An English and creative writing graduate, Onyi works in technology and project management. She is cofounder of Surviving Out Loud, a fund that provides survivors of sexual assault with legal assistance, therapy and temporary relocation. Someday, Maybe is Onyi’s debut and she is currently at work on her second novel.

The first time I asked the man in the mirror to change me, he made me worse . I asked him again a few months later, the glass shattered into millions of pieces and scratched my face. I guess ü gotta' be happy with who ü r.

I could murder a Jack and Coke. Really, really murder one,” said Kate. “I could double homicide a Newcastle Brown Ale with a shot of Teacher’s,” said Myra, going to the kettle and switching it on. “And I’m holding twenty-six years’ sobriety in my hand.” Kate put her head forward on the table. Myra came over and patted her on the back. “You know the score. Hunker down. Grit your teeth. Imagine you’re having really great sex,” she said. “I hate it.” “Really great sex?” “No, not that that’s happened for a while. The cravings.” “Grit, grit, grit those teeth, love, and grit some more,” she said, rubbing Kate on the back.

The history of the knowledge of the phenomena of life and of the organized world can be divided into two main periods. For a long time anatomy, and particularly the anatomy of the human body, was the a and ? of scientific knowledge. Further progress only became possible with the discovery of the microscope. A long time had yet to pass until through Schwann the cell was established as the final biological unit. It would mean bringing coals to Newcastle were I to describe here the immeasurable progress which biology in all its branches owes to the introduction of this concept of the cell. For this concept is the axis around which the whole of the modem science of life revolves.

he said the men in the colliers that run up to Newcastle and the fishermen and farm hands don’t behave like ladies and gentlemen and don’t talk like them.” “But why write about people of that character?” said my uncle. “That’s what I say,” said Mrs. Hayforth. “We all know that there are coarse and wicked and vicious people in the world, but I don’t see what good it does to write about them.” “I’m not defending him,” said Mr. Galloway. “I’m only telling you what explanation he gives himself. And then of course he brought up Dickens.” “Dickens is quite different,” said my uncle. “I don’t see how anyone can object to the Pickwick Papers.” “I suppose it’s a matter of taste,” said my aunt. “I always found Dickens very coarse. I don’t want to read about people who drop their aitches.

In 2011, actor Johnny Depp told the November issue of Vanity Fair that he felt participating in a photoshoot was akin to rape. "Well, you just feel like you're being raped somehow. Raped . . . It feels like a kind of weird - just weird, man. But whenever you have a photo shoot or something like that, it's like - you just feel dumb. It's just so stupid," he said. Likening instances of being flustered or uneasy to the often life-shattering experience of rape has become a far too common comparison in modern lexicon. The phrase "Facebook rape" is perhaps the most widely used, which implies one person has posted on another person's Facebook account - usually something intended to embarrass the person. But the casual, flippant use of the term "rape" in instances that do not involve sexual violence is highly problematic in that it trivialises one of the most despicable invasions of a human being. Desensitising the masses to the term "rape" is just another way the conversation surrounding sexual assault is derailed or diluted in society. Rape is, and should be considered universally, as a serious societal sickness that occurs within the "toxic silence" that surrounds sexual assault as Tara Moss put so elegantly in her recent Q&A appearance. Further to that, the use of the term can be a trigger for rape survivors in that it may jolt terrifying memories of their own experience. According to the Australian Institute of Family Studies, up to 57 per cent of rape survivors suffer post-traumatic stress disorder in their lifetime, with "triggers" including inflammatory words like rape causing deeply traumatic recollections. Beware desensitising the term "rape", Newcastle Herald, June 6, 2014

Professor A. H. Maslow, for example, has conducted a series of researches into extremely healthy people that have led him to conclude that health and optimism are far more positive principles in human psychology than Freud would ever have admitted. Man is a slave to the delusion that he is a passive creature, a creature of circumstance; this is because he makes the mistake of identifying himself with his limited everyday consciousness, and is unaware of the immense forces that lie just beyond the threshold of consciousness. But these forces, although he is unaware of them on a conscious level, are still a far more active influence in his life than any external circumstances. Freudian psychology, for all its achievements, has made a twofold error: it has tried to anatomize the human mind as a pathologist would dissect a corpse, and it has limited its researches to sick human beings. Sick men talk about their illness far more than healthy people talk about their health; in fact, healthy people are usually too absorbed in living to bother with self-revelation. Psychology has consequently been inclined to divide the world into sick people and “normal” people, regarding occasional super-normality as the exception; Maslow has shown that super-normality is a great deal commoner than would be supposed; in fact as common as sub-normality. Ordinarily healthy people often experience a sense of intense life-affirmation (which Maslow calls “peak experiences”); and examination of peak experiences has led Maslow to conclude that the evolutionary drive (which is so clear in art and philosophy) is as basic a part of human psychology as the Freudian libido or the Adlerian will to self-assertion. — Colin Wilson, “‘Six Thousand Feet Above Men and Time‘: Remarks on Nietzsche and Kierkegaard” (1965) (Wilson C. “Six Thousand Feet Above Men and Time”: Remarks on Nietzsche and Kierkegaard // Stanley C. (Ed.). Colin Wilson: Collected Essays on Philosophers. — Newcastle upon Tyne: Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2016. Pp. 110–111.)

So Seals throws down his napkin and pushes back his chair and rises and demands to know who did it. Christ. We’re going to get to the bottom of this, he says. And then he began to point out possible culprits and to demand that they own up. It was you, wasnt it? Jesus. I tried to hiss him down. By now several large and unruly-looking chaps had gotten to their feet. The manager arrived just in the nick and we got Seals seated but he continued to mutter and they rose all over again. Do you know what I find particularly galling, he told them. It’s having to share the women with you lot. To listen to you fuckwits holding forth and to see some lissome young thing leaning forward breathlessly with that barely contained frisson with which we are all familiar the better to inhale without stint an absolute plaguebreath of bilge and bullshit as if it were the word of the prophets. It’s painful but still I suppose one has to extend a certain latitude to the little dears. They’ve so little time in which to parlay that pussy into something of substance. But it nettles. That you knucklewalkers should even be allowed to contemplate the sacred grotto as you drool and grunt and wank. Let alone actually reproduce. Well the hell with it. A pox upon you. You’re a pack of mudheaded bigots who loathe excellence on principle and though one might cordially wish you all in hell still you wont go. You and your nauseating get. Granted, if everyone I wished in hell were actually there they’d have to send to Newcastle for supplementary fuel. I’ve made ten thousand concessions to your ratfuck culture and you’ve yet to make the first to mine. It only remains for you to hold your cups to my gaping throat and toast one another’s health with my heart’s blood. Ah well, Squire, I tell you everything and you

God help us you full of talk of a city called Edinburgh and me in silence so very deep we were so very much in love. And the burns and sikes and streams though shallow were deep music to us. You trout-tickler, you flower-picker, climber in willow trees, me laughing below as best I could laugh, though you never thought it ugly. Indeed the word you used was the word beautiful, pinning cowslips behind my ears, you patting and running fingers through our beckwashed hair. Lying by the marigold beds bare toes entwined, then dancing under branches before the elms ever died. But our mutual hearts never did. Bar it is 7 and your raining rage must cease under my morning moon. In my dawn shawl looking dawndown upon you in your foot-striding fellhighhighupuptopheavyrainbeatingrainrain. We have always walked together so long. In the long grass we walked and walked forever so long so very language long and I could say so once you had the slate in my lap. My tongue blank - FOREVER, word we wrote on a slate, remember when you taught me? - only my hands and eyes moving now - two daughters we could have had - but I am looking kindly and lovingly on you 'Please do it' - cool your raging fire lovelorn heart - for me. And love me - forever.

Bulstrode Whitelocke, chronicler of events during the Commonwealth,

The Nominated Parliament - nicknamed the Barebones Parliament after one of its members, Praisegod Barebones

A 'sack posset' - a kind of wine cup - was drunk by the couple and a piece of the bride cake broken over their heads. Margaret objected to the latter because it left crumbs in the bedclothes.

We like to believe ourselves sympathetic, but, in truth, Nature has designed us, perhaps necessarily, to be callous. A murder in Newcastle is of less importance than a cut finger in our own home, and therefore Winifred Mostyn was only mildly interested. All at once, however, the mildness evaporated. In the next column a name had caught her eye.

They obviously desire something mystical, something different to break the dreary monotony of everyday life. But it is like carrying coals to Newcastle." ... "Here we are, wondering around in a wonderful adventure. A work of creation is emerging in front of our very eyes.

Just like as in a nest of boxes round, Degrees of sizes in each box are found: So, in this world, may many others be Thinner and less, and less still by degree … by Margaret Cavendish, Duchess of Newcastle-upon-Tyne (1623–1653)

Billy Meredith is the oldest player ever to represent the club. He appeared for the club at the ripe old age of 49 years 245 days against Newcastle United in the FA Cup on 29th March 1924.

The difference it made to the psyche of the English working-class voter was remarkable. Suddenly, when England were playing football, on the housing estates of Newcastle, the crosses of St George were hanging out of bedroom windows.’ With devolution, Farage argued Blair had fostered a sense that ‘we should almost be ashamed to be English’.

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him. I can do business on my own. So I came in to Newcastle. But it’s the same story. Cheapskates.’ She eyed him carefully, as though weighing his usefulness to her. ‘I want to go to London. There is more money there. And I want some introductions.’ Charlie took a deep breath. She wasn’t pulling any punches. But then, she was from Russland. He’d heard that the Russian police were more often than not involved in the rackets themselves. He hesitated, glanced at Elaine Start meaningfully, and nodded. She shook her head in disapproval, but when he frowned at her she murmured something into the recording device, and then switched off the tape. She folded her arms over her splendid breasts, demonstrating her disagreement. He dragged his eyes away from temptation and turned back to Ludmila Paderewski, or whatever her name really was. He didn’t

the megacity that stretched from Newcastle to Wollongong. Ten miles to the south a man-made constellation skimmed rapidly over the sea surface — masthead lights, green starboard light, accommodation and deck lights — the roar of its progress

Two years after giving the Ballard Matthews Lectures, Lewis delivered the Riddell Memorial Lectures at the Newcastle upon Tyne campus of the University of Durham on three consecutive evenings, 24–26 February 1943.[507] These remarkable lectures were published as The Abolition of Man in 1943 by Oxford University Press. Lewis here argues that contemporary moral reflection has been undermined by a radical subjectivity—a trend he discerns within contemporary school textbooks. In response to this development, Lewis calls for a renewal of the moral tradition based on “the doctrine of objective value, the belief that certain attitudes are really true, and others really false, to the kind of thing the universe is and the kind of things we are.”[508] Lewis here criticises those who argue that all statements of value (such as “this waterfall is pretty”)[509] are merely subjective statements about the speaker’s feelings, rather than objective statements concerning their object. Lewis argues that certain objects and actions merit positive or negative reactions—in other words, that a waterfall can be objectively pretty, just as someone’s actions can be objectively good or evil. He argues there is a set of objective values (which he terms “the Tao”)[510] that are common to all cultures, with only minor variations. Although The Abolition of Man is now considered a difficult book, its arguments remain highly significant.

The surreal part was, the surf at Newcastle Beach was cranking, so here I was, on a pristine afternoon, getting sunburnt as hell, the day after I’d been snowboarding in a tiny inland town in Canada.

But an even more tragic paradox sullied the New World dream and made it impossible to begin life afresh under a new sky. For the high cultures that were already established in Mexico, Central America, and the Andes were not in any sense primitive or new, still less did they represent more acceptable human ideals than those the Old World cultures had put forward. The conquistadors of Mexico and Peru found a native population so rigidly regimented, so completely deprived of initiative, that in Mexico, as soon as their king, Montezuma, was captured and unable to give orders they offered little or no overt resistance to the invaders. Here, in short, in the 'New' world was the same institutional complex that had shackled civilization since its beginnings in Mesopotamia and Egypt: slavery, caste, war, divine kingship, and even the religious sacrifice of human victims on altars-sometimes as with the Aztecs on an appalling scale. Politically speaking, Western imperialism was carrying coals to Newcastle.

neurosurgeon. I graduated from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill in 1976 with a major in chemistry and earned my M.D. at Duke University Medical School in 1980. During my eleven years of medical school and residency training at Duke as well as Massachusetts General Hospital and Harvard, I focused on neuroendocrinology, the study of the interactions between the nervous system and the endocrine system—the series of glands that release the hormones that direct most of your body’s activities. I also spent two of those eleven years investigating how blood vessels in one area of the brain react pathologically when there is bleeding into it from an aneurysm—a syndrome known as cerebral vasospasm. After completing a fellowship in cerebrovascular neurosurgery in Newcastle-Upon-Tyne in the United Kingdom, I spent fifteen years on the faculty of Harvard Medical School as an associate professor of surgery, with a specialization in neurosurgery. During those years I operated on countless patients, many of them with severe, life-threatening brain conditions.

Also, as I discovered when I took the Newcastle Personality Assessor, which measures personality according to the Big Five model (openness to experience, conscientiousness, extroversion, agreeableness, and neuroticism, or OCEAN),

En 1863, en Newcastle, el doctor James Hunt había dejado consternada a la audiencia de una reunión de la British Association for the Advancement of Science, al afirmar que los «negros» eran una especie separada de seres humanos, a medio camino entre el mono y el «hombre europeo».

Our church is so rich in hymns that you could justifiably state that if one were to introduce Methodist hymns in a Lutheran school, this would be like carrying coals to Newcastle. The singing of such hymns would make the rich Lutheran Church into a beggar that is forced to beg from a miserable sect.

To wander through a day care center in Newcastle while clutching a map of the Berlin subway is genuinely disorienting.

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What idea have the south-country people of the Tyne? The truth is any object nearly 300 miles distant is not only entirely out of range of metropolitan sympathy, but pretty nearly out of the confines of metropolitan knowledge. To thousands and thousands the tune is barley a sound; it conveys no ideas.

The official declaration of war came on October 19, 1739, with the ringing of bells and the Prince of Wales toasting the London populace outside the Rose Tavern near Temple Bar. “This is your war,” Walpole told his rival the Duke of Newcastle, “and I wish you joy of it.

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Though every dead man is a reduction of their number, the thousand POWs who first left Changi as Evans’ J Force—an assortment of Tasmanians and West Australians surrendered in Java, South Australians surrendered at Singapore, survivors of the sinking of the destroyer, HMAS Newcastle, a few Vics and New South Welshmen from other military misadventures, and some RAAF airmen—remain Evans’ J Force. That’s what they were when they arrived and that’s what they will be when they leave, Evans’ J Force, one-thousand souls strong, no matter, if at the end, only one man remains to march out of this camp. They are survivors of grim, pinched decades who have been left with this irreducible minimum: a belief in each other, a belief that they cleave to only more strongly when death comes. For if the living let go of the dead, their own life ceases to matter. The fact of their own survival somehow demands that they are one, now and forever.

Club, tonight, man, don’t you see?” “Please, Anita, coals to Newcastle! Mercy!” “Don’t think twice about it, baby. It’ll be outrageous, man. I will be your angel from hell. At

Doncaster Railway Station, East Coast Line. Tuesday 5pm. Gil was halfway between London and Newcastle when a text came through on her mobile phone, informing her that her premium seat on the aircraft had been confirmed. Upon her arrival at Newcastle Central Station, a limousine would be waiting to whisk her away to the Britannia Hotel at Newcastle Airport.

An utter success,' her stepdaughters confided to Margaret as they prepared to take their leave. 'The handsome king! That spoof!' Still the rain persisted, and the bishop had lost his hat. Maids danced in and out. Where was the bishop's hat? Alone at the window, Margaret didn't hear. The reflection of the parlor was yellow and warm. She watched it empty out. Then, an interruption. A voice came at her side: 'What do you look at with such interest, Lady Cavendish?' What did she see in the glass? She saw the Marchioness of Newcastle. She saw the aging wife of an aged marquess, without even any children to dignify her life.

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Craig Richards, a researcher at the University of Newcastle in Australia, revealed that there are no evidence-based studies—not one—that demonstrate that running shoes make you less prone to injury.

Even in literature -- a possible resort in the nineteenth century for for such intelligent and creative women as the Brontes and George Eliot -- there were no female role models for her to follow,

In the forty years from 1600 to 1640, when Margaret reached the age of seventeen, only forty-two books by women had been printed, and of these only seven wore literary works.

But King James I hated learned ladies. they were ridiculed at court, and soon the normal Stuart education for girls went little beyond the most basic skills of reading and writing, and the elementary arithmetic they would need in their household management.

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Ankled, banjaxed, bladdered bleezin’ Why? Do I really need a reason? I’m cabbaged clobbered, Chevy Chased But not a broken vein upon my face Despite being thoroughly Dot Cottoned Sobriety almost forgotten I’m etched – egregiously and completely That creme de menthe went down so sweetly So now, I’m fleemered and I’m flecked So many snifters have been necked That guttered, sweaty, ganted, howling I’m wearing shirts made out of towelling Inebriated, kaed up, jaxied I’ve been ill in every single taxi In every city kiboshed, kaned Bernhard Langered, legless, debrained Dhuisg, it is in Gaelic, mottled (I must recycle all my bottles) I’m Newcastled, out of my tree There’s really not much wrong with me On the skite, overly refreshed I swear I’d still pass my driving “tesht” For drink improves pronounciation Adds sparkle to enunciation Predicting earthquakes, kissing pavements Quite quoited, rubbered, I’ve made arrangements To remain forever snobbled Sleeping on tarmac or on cobbles Thora Hirded, trousered, trashed I’ve spent great lakes of liquid cash Unca’ fou, marocced, it’s easy Discombobulated, queasy My wobbly boots are on, I’m wellied But only very slightly smelly Xenophoned, Yorkshired as a skunk Zombied But not even slightly drunk.

Children and wise adults know to be afraid of the dark.

They were coming for each other — some how, some when. Grace Fielding had known that since the beginning and understood most of what was at stake. The Broken couldn't help themselves. The Broken couldn't leave well enough alone.

Maturity ushered in a desire to replace a dorm room's cinderblock walls with custom paint and expensive frames. Heartbreak always ushered in a craving for bigger beds and personal space.

When a quarter of a million miners are unemployed, it is a part of the order of things that Alf Smith, a miner living in the back-streets of Newcastle, should be out of work. But no human being finds it easy to regard himself as a statistical unit. So long as Bert Jones across the street is still at work, Alf Smith is bound to feel himself dishonoured and a failure.

Carnaby, the brother, survived childhood.’ ‘If he went into the army, then there will be records,’ John Armstrong announced firmly. ‘I’ll contact my sons and Cecily’s husband, Captain Derwent. Trust me, Lavender; if the rogue did survive and went on to join the army, then there will be records of him—somewhere.’ ‘I need to go and speak with Doctor Goddard,’ Lavender said as they hurried down the main street in Bellingham. ‘We need to split up, Ned. I’ll visit Goddard, then go to The Redesdale Arms and speak to the landlord. You must go to Newcastle, find Mr Agar the lawyer and pursue my request for a copy of Baxter Carnaby’s last will and testament. I must see that document. The last master of Linn Hagh had far more secrets than I ever imagined.’ ‘Didn’t he just,’ Woods said. ‘This case has turned into a sack full of squirmin’ river eels. Slippery buggers, all of them Carnabys—especially the father.’ ‘Indeed. I hope that this document at the lawyers’ will shed some light on what really went on at Linn Hagh.’ ‘I’ll grab a bite to eat from The Rose and Crown before I go,’ Woods told him. ‘Oh—and I might just call on young Anna at her mother’s cottage on me way—just to check she got home safely

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Ive had become interested in the rise of credit cards and meditated on the disconnect between the cheap plastic material and the amount of money people spent with a swipe. He also puzzled over how a merchant could track a purchase instantly, even though a card user had to wait for a mailed paper statement. He imagined a world in which people carried circular medallions the size of a pebble that they would place on a minicomputer at checkout. The glossy black medallion would charge on a device the size of a pocket calculator that displayed transaction information. “He brought a preciousness and a watchmaker’s delicacy to it,” said John Elliott, a Newcastle professor. When Apple released a contactless payment system called Apple Pay decades later, Elliott remembered Ive’s “blue sky” project. “He was twenty years ahead of the game,” he said.

She had devoted time to improving her reading and was now more than proficient. The shelf she'd first cleared with Bianca overflowed with tales of King Arthur and his knights, Ovid's poetry, plays by Sophocles, Aristotle and Aeschylus, Apuleius, names she loved repeating in her mind because the mere sound of them conjured the drama, pageantry, passion, transformations and suffering of their heroes and heroines. One of her favorite writers was Geoffrey Chaucer-- his poems of pilgrims exchanging stories as they traveled to a shrine in Canterbury were both heart aching and often sidesplittingly funny. Admittedly, one of the reasons she loved Chaucer was because she could read him for herself. It was the same reason she picked up Shakespeare over and over, and the works of Margaret Cavendish, the Duchess of Newcastle upon Tyne. They all wrote in English. Regarded as quite the eccentric, the duchess was a woman of learning who, like Rosamund, was self-taught. Her autobiography, A True Relation of my Birth, Breeding and Life, a gift from Mr. Henderson, gave Rosamund a model to emulate. Here was a woman who dared to consider not only philosophy, science, astronomy and romance, but to write about her reflections and discoveries in insightful ways. Defying her critics, she determined that women were men's intellectual equal, possessed of as quick a wit and as many subtleties if only given the means to express themselves-- in other words, access to education.

Edwards Bond's The Worlds (1979), for instance, was first given by amateurs in Newcastle, but its scope was immense, charting the collapse of a successful business operation riddled with strike action, terrorism, kidnappings and long speeches. In one of these, a terrorist defines the two worlds as one of appearance and one of reality. In the first, she says, there is right and wrong, the law and good manners. In the second, which controls the first, machines and power.

On the doorstep was a woman. Definitely not a late-arriving friend who’d been forgotten. This woman was large and shabby. She wore wellingtons and a knitted hat. She reminded Juliet of the homeless people she encountered occasionally outside Newcastle Central station, wrapped in threadbare blankets, begging. Then there was a flash of recognition. She remembered a funeral. Her great-uncle Hector’s funeral. Hector, her grandfather’s younger brother, a mythical black sheep of whom stories had been told in whispers when she was growing up. It had been a bleak, rainy day and she’d been surrounded by strangers. She’d been sent along to represent their side of the family, because in death Hector could be forgiven. He would no longer be around to cause trouble. ‘Vera, we weren’t expecting you!’ She realized immediately that she’d let dismay creep into her voice.

That dominated the headlines, but the greater issue was that Newcastle’s lack of shape had never been more obvious. Newcastle won 43 per cent of matches with Asprilla, compared with 75 per cent without him.

I can testify from my own experience the Church covers up, silences victims, hinders police investigations, alerts offenders, destroys evidence and moves priests to protect the good name of the Church. (Newcastle Herald journalist Joanne McCarthy, quoted on p.124)

He ordered a Newcastle Brown Ale, and sipped it with enjoyment.

PHILLIP HELMSBY, the father of both Alice and Bianca, was the son of an extensive iron master in the neighbourhood of Newcastle. When quite a young man, his father sent him to Genoa on business connected with the house, and whilst there, he became passionately enamoured of a beautiful Italian girl, the daughter of the friends in whose family he lived. He endeavoured to obtain her hand in marriage, but both families raised a storm of objections—his father would not hear of a Papist for a daughter-in-law, nor would her father consent to her marrying a heretic

Shipments of coal from Newcastle upon Tyne, an expanding coal port on the Tyne River in the northeast of England, increased accordingly from about thirty-five thousand tons in the midsixteenth century to about four hundred thousand tons by 1625. In two generations, the historian J. U. Nef concludes, “the coal trade from the Tyne had multiplied twelvefold.”22

together we had water and silence and fire and togetherness the lights of all you didn't say knots my life and all dreams.

The Scots had deforested their lands a century before the English. They were used to burning coal, and luckily for them, hard Scottish coal burned cleaner and brighter than soft Newcastle bituminous.

Bryan Ferry: ‘It’s always sad when I go back to Newcastle and see that certain places don’t exist any more. But it’s great that one shop – which was very important for me also – is still there, in a wonderful old arcade, with extravagant tiled floors, rather like the Bond Street arcades. It’s a shop called Windows, which is a family music shop and the only place you really go to buy records. The windows are full of clarinets, saxophones, electric guitars – a proper music shop, which sold everything. But just to see a trumpet in the window – a real instrument, to look at it and study it!

At first, the Museo reminded me of an American community college plopped along the outskirts of an American suburb in what used to be a fertile American cornfield. This institution was large, but upon closer examination, it lacked the expanse I was expecting. As Ernesto drove toward the building, I noted the difference between my expectations and reality — the mountainous backdrop in the distance.

The original outline for my midlife crisis was to take a break from a defunct business model and escape into a predictable job at a museum. The intriguing portion of my midlife crisis was to arrive in Argentina and chat it up with a handsome paleontologist while getting a predictable job done. Sitting dumbstruck, in a darkened library, after reading a stack of sultry love letters wasn't part of any script, but I liked intrigue.

Newcastle also advised Charles against pursuing religion too assiduously. His advice was that monarchs who place too much emphasis on gaining a spiritual throne risk losing their earthly ones.

Ok, you paid my fare all way from London to Newcastle, what do you need? I need you to retrieve a mobile phone for me. From where? Inside him. But not sure the exact location. You got the number? Yeah. Call it. Ok. There, see the glow? Uhm. Leave it to me.

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However, there is a small but undeniable part of herself that takes comfort in imagining the detailed journey home: landing in Gatwick, a train to Victoria Station, the tube to King’s Cross, another train that rolls through the countryside, small towns, and swelling cities, and eventually to Newcastle, then a forty-minute Metro to South Shields, a two-mile walk (her rolling luggage listing consistently to her left), and it’s warm and sunny even though it is never warm and sunny often enough in northern England, and finally she’s standing before their semidetached home with the brick walls and a white trellis, and she walks through the small garden and through the back door, then to the kitchen to sit with Mum and Dad at their ridiculous little table with the ugly yellow vinyl tablecloth and they both glance over the frames of their reading glasses and smile that wan I-see-you-dear smile.

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The Duke of Newcastle, as lord of the Manor of Worksop, was entitled to supply a glove for the sovereign’s right hand and to support that hand when Elizabeth clasped the royal sceptre. Unfortunately, the duke had gone off to live in Rhodesia in 1948, and he showed no inclination to come back for the day.

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A study at Newcastle University in 2014 found that organic fruit and vegetables had higher levels of antioxidants than non-organic varieties. This isn't too surprising – since plants make antioxidants to fight off insects, organic farmers normally grow varieties that naturally produce larger amounts of these substances.

occurred in Liverpool near the end of February 1824. They had a short honeymoon and arrived back in Newcastle on the coastal cutter in early March.

To find out mine, I took a test called the Newcastle Personality Assessor.

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