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Gideon the Ninth Fukken Metal as Fuck Yeah

“These two cunts are fully harden the fuck up, cunt.”
“Which two cunts, Chica?”
“Gideon and her hate crush Harrow.”
“Sounds sikk. Tell me more.”
“Lezzie dyke undying necromancer gothic space opera horror?”
“10/10 would nonverbal consent.”
“’Member in Iain Banks’ The Algebraist?”
“Iain wiv an M. Banks?”
“The one. Again and always.”
“Wif the creepy but kinda sexy in a bad extra way one wot had diamonds for teeth?”
“Yup. Archimandrite Luseferous.”
“Yup, and?”
“And ’member Ancillary Justice?”
“Ann Leckie who was your safe space when our Iain got indisposed on account of being dead?”
“Am still grieving an’ yup.”
“An’ you were like, if someone wrote a whole novel from the perspective of that toothy psycho and his Starveling Cult, plus pronouns and tea, that’d be Imperial Radch?”
“Pretty much.”
“Orrite, and?”
“Well Gideon the Ninth is like all of that plus Norwegian Black Metal corpse paint.”
“Hectic as.”
“Fully.”
“Goes to eleven?”
“Goes to 666.”
“None More Black?”
“None More Black, Chica.”
“Oooo!”
“Wot then?”
“Forgot. Gideon the Ninth is like all of that plus Norwegian Black Metal corpse paint plus …”
“Plus what?”
Oglaf!
“Sithrak! Cumsprite!”
“Sluts!”
“An’ who is the sharp cunt wot wrote it?”
“That’d be Tamsyn Muir. An’ she comes from Aotearoa.”
“Proper good. An’ who did that cover, ’cos a) that’s metal as fuck and b) cunt can destroy my bones any day or night.”
“That’d be Tommy Arnold and fukken fuck yeah.”
“And you’re smashing it?”
“Very much so.”
“And what else? You gonna tell me there’s a sequel?”
“Fukken sequel!”
“Siiikk! What’s it called?”
Harrow the Ninth!”
“An’ have you ordered it yet?”
“I’m a tardy bint.”
“Get your shit together. Tell me a truth moment, Chica.”
“Hit me.”
“You finished it yet? Did it stick the landing?”
“Nah not yet. But if page 357 was the end, landing was totes stuck. Right horrorshow.”
“High praise from an intolerant cunt.”
“All that.”
“New fave author?”
“Read me to filth there.”
“Anything else?”
“Well obvz I want Gideon to be a righteous trans femme, ’cos I’m simple like that. Book of the Year in any case, not that I’m doing that anymore, but still, that’s where it’s at.”

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Maximum Hoonage Nürburgring

Still a better German Ring story than Wagner’s Ring Cycle.

Yes, I did buy a Nürburgring t-shirt and hoodie. Yes, the hoodie Ring is reflective. Yes, there is a future where I will spend silly money to do laps on the Nordschleife. Preferably at night in the rain.

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24 Hour Nürburgring COVID-19 2020 Finish

24 hours with no racing from before midnight till eight in the morning. So much rain. 15.452 seconds between the 1st place Bimmer and the 2nd place Audi.

Charlie Martin coming in 57th and 4th in class, and racing first and last sessions.

And how diligent and unremarkable was all the mask wearing? Maybe it’s because drivers and crews are used to wearing things over their faces, but doing a transmission replacement in the wet at midnight and keeping those noses and mouths covered shows how basic and possible it is to Wear a Fucking Mask. And as soon as the winning driver was out of his car, there was someone there with a mask.

It’s so much easier and less bullshit if the rule is you have to wear a mask at all times, no exceptions. Everyone did it, very few noses exposed, everyone did it and not just for the cameras. Maybe it took the race organisers setting the rules and consequences which achieved this level of getting it right. Drivers and teams have a very strict set of non-negotiable race rules to adhere to, making this just one more rule to either follow or not race at all. Very comfortable with doing it like this.

I truly love this race, love the Nürburgring and love that in the middle of a pandemic they did the work to create this gorgeous bit of hoonage art.

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Charlie Martin 24 Hour Nürburgring 2020

Seven hours in. Night and rain and hydroplaning and attrition. Giti ladies women Girls Only team shredding a sikk as VW Golf VI GTI. Bad weather Red Flag, all the cars garaged and crews stripping and cleaning.

And the two old Brit geezer commentators shoutout to Charlie Martin. I have never heard motorsport commentators saying, “trans woman.” Ever. Barely ever are there cis women drivers, and from Bubba Wallace in NASCAR to Lewis Hamilton in F1 barely ever seen Black drivers. They got her pronouns right, they used her middle name, Christina, also, just in case Charlie was too unisex for us hoons, they got the terminology and context down too.

Any dickhead saying this isn’t relevant / leave politics out of sport / something something meritocracy / what’s that got to do with racing, on God I will call them a waahmbulance once I’ve sorted their ‘opinions’ with my mechanic baba’s Snap-On tools.

I’ve always been a hoon and loved motorsport. I’m already old cunt auntie and Charlie racing at Nürburgring 24h, being respectfully spoken about by the commentators, all that, is so fucking important.

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24 Hour Nürburgring Safe Space

“… hollow-eyed victims of some sort of weird abuse”

My absolute favourite race. It could only be better if Le Mans Prototype cars were also racing. I genuinely, completely love this.

This year, thanks to the pandemic and Europe’s meh response, the race is in autumn, a couple of weeks after Le Mans 24h, and in heaps of rain. Heaps of rain. It’s going to be messy, dirty attrition.

And! Charlie Martin is racing! No. 242 BMW M240i. Yup, there’s a trans woman exactly right now shredding the ’Ring.

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Bike Rebuild Part 2

Looking very shiny.

Friday got me to the “It looks like a bike, dunnit?” stage, which was me lying to myself. Saturday was the real work of cutting brake and gear cables, and the horrorshow of setting up cantilever brakes. Sunday was “It’s gotta be rideable by 3pm, ’cos you gotta haul arse up to Wedding and see Dasniya perform.”

Sunday. Many videos of Calvin Jones of Park Tool later, a rideable bike.

So many ways to measure and fit a chain. So many ways to set up and index front and rear derailleurs. So many ways to wrap bar tape. So, so, so many videos on YouTube. Only one Calvin Jones.

And of course, not finished. Riding to Wedding and back rattled everything into place. The gears, they went *ching* like Kelis’ Milkshake. The brakes can throw me over the bars with one finger. Still a little skippy and noisy and squeaky though.

And the new riding position is a bit of work. I bought a fizik – or rather, fi’zi:k – Vento Argo R5 saddle ’cos the cutaway down the middle on my old one was nice but not in the right place, and this one is wider (for my weirdly spacious sitbones) and shorter, and very much does not stab me anywhere from butthole to pubic bone. I also bought fizik seat post and bar stem, ’cos I’ve loved using their bar tape the last couple of years. My new position is about the same length on the bar tops but slightly lower on the hoods and drops. This bike has always been a size or two too big for me, and getting low without getting stretched out or loosing the cyclocross agility I need has been a messy process, compounded by the shit cable routing for the front brake.

And today, with a very big box of discarded packaging, another box of old and destroyed bike parts, I decided to sort my drawers of bike shit. So much shit. So many old parts. I now have two drawers of very fucking highly organised and actually usable parts, two sets of serviced and ready to thrash wheels (one for cobbles and one for cyclocross), one sexy refurbished bike and pretty close to getting back out on some training rides.

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Bike Rebuild Part 1

Remember when I was all, “You Know What You’re Doing, Eh, Frances?”? Back in late-April 2018? Apparently I enjoy the outer reaches of “know what I’m doing” where it turns into “what am I doing?”

My poor bike.

It’s seen better days. Like the day before I bought it, for example. Original parts are now frame, forks, and handlebars. The latter I considered replacing as well this time but I like their fit and buying highly specialised fit stuff online without measuring and trying is a high risk activity for me.

So. First set of Fulcrum wheels rebuilt by me and bearings replaced in the shop ’cos I have not yet cried my way to spending 300€+ on a bearing press. Second set of Fulcrum wheels also rebuilt and laughing my way through flushing one set of grotty bearings and regreasing them ’cos I can’t afford another trip to the shop right now. Very tasty Challenge Chicane cyclocross tires on the former, with tan sidewalls (Which is high fashion. Allegedly.) and the Strada Bianca ones on the latter. Dead fucking sharp.

Old parts stripped from bike and in a box. New parts I’ve been collecting for months in another. Bike frame cleaned, much WD40 huffed, vague ennui slash sadness at the crappiness of the BB30 bottom bracket, which I considered replacing with an adaptor and a threaded one, which would mean a whole new set of cranks, which realistically isn’t a bad idea but fucking hell we’re very in “You spent new bike money on your old bike. Again!” territory right now, so, no, creaky fucking BB fucking 30 it is.

I did buy a chain whip and cassette remover ’cos I wanted to be able to swap the cassette between aforementioned dope as fuck wheels (“You could just swap the tires, Chica?” “I could just not? Dickhead!”) and woo! tools! My baba was very in the room yesterday. Not sure if he’s proud or confused about me, but he was very professionally interested in wtf I was doing.

Yesterday, then. Bike stripped and me all, “Fukken really? This again? Oh god why?” And today so far, past the grotty cleaning stage and starting the funtimes rebuilding stage, pretending the subsequent running and setting cables stage is no big deal and will not take me an upsetting amount of time.

My fingers and hands are serving high femme mechanic realness.

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Francesca d’Ath, Isabelle Schad: Knotting (at Wiesenburg)

Me back performing again.

I pretty much had made peace with moving on from dance and all in the last couple of years, enjoying training for myself and finding myself at a distance to those worlds. Then, late-last year, Isabelle said, “You’re doing a solo!”

We’ve been rehearsing irregular weeks since late-January, slowly building a work that finally got a formal-ish public outing on the weekend in Isabelle’s studio at Wiesenburg (masks and physical distancing and pandemic attentiveness obviously). First time performing in more than two years, and, after a decade living in Berlin, first time I’ve performed here — in a formal, dance scene context at least, not counting small, more private art-ing.

It’s been huge, a lot of work physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually, and a lot of responsibility in being seen. Being seen by both the audience, some of whom recognised parts of themselves in me, and understand what that means, and being seen by those who came before, aunties, mothers, old ones who visited, who I called on ’cos I needed their strength and support and approval, and I needed them to see me, us like this. And my babaanne, wandering around after just out of sight. I am grateful for them all, and for those who came up to me after, who were the ones I needed to fully see me, and who I needed to see also.

Another pause now, then — as always, pandemic allowing — at Sophiensaele in early-November.

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Nyla Rose Serving Motivation

Sent to me by Vass yesterday and the motivation I need.

And here’s my trash arse not knowing who Nyla Rose is, not knowing she’s a pro wrestler and actor and trans woman and femme and First Nations. And obviously I’m in love. When I talk about serving trans femme realness, this is who I see.

And, “Something Something … Positivity or Whatever” is the new “harden the fuck up”.