Latest news with #Viz
Time of India
2 days ago
- Entertainment
- Time of India
One Piece chapter 1155 release date and time: When and where to read Eiichiro Oda's manga
One Piece chapter 1155 release date and time: Anticipation is rising as One Piece chapter 1155 gets ready to drop. Eiichiro Oda's iconic manga keeps fans around the globe hooked with its gripping plot and unforgettable cast. In this article, we'll cover the exact release date, timing for different regions, and where you can catch the newest chapter online. One Piece chapter 1155 release date and time One Piece chapter 1155 is scheduled for an official release at midnight JST on Monday, July 21, 2025. While fans in Japan will get the chapter on Monday morning, most international readers will be able to access it earlier on Sunday, July 20. One Piece chapter 1155 release date and time as per different time zones Pacific Standard Time (PST): Sunday, July 20, 2025 – 8:00 am Eastern Standard Time (EST): Sunday, July 20, 2025 – 11:00 am British Summer Time (BST): Sunday, July 20, 2025 – 4:00 pm Central European Summer Time (CEST): Sunday, July 20, 2025 – 5:00 pm Indian Standard Time (IST): Sunday, July 20, 2025 – 8:30 pm Philippine Standard Time (PHT): Sunday, July 20, 2025 – 11:00 pm Japanese Standard Time (JST): Monday, July 21, 2025 – 12:00 am Australia Central Time (ACT): Monday, July 21, 2025 – 12:30 am Where to read One Piece chapter 1155? Fans have three ways to read One Piece chapter 1155 once it's out. They can visit Viz's official website or Shueisha's Manga Plus platform, both of which offer the newest chapters for free. What to expect from One Piece chapter 1155? As per Sportskeeda, One Piece chapter 1155 is expected to center around Loki's meeting with the uniquely characterized members of the Rocks Pirates. The chapter might also explore more of Loki's story, including his unrequited love for Lola and the pain of being rejected.
The Herald Scotland
3 days ago
- Politics
- The Herald Scotland
You're evil if you're not a socialist after reading legendary trilogy
By the third volume it was being accused of Stalinism, though the author never became an official Communist 'as they won't let me in'. He never lived to see the full horrors of Stalinism nor the morphing of socialism into a movement obsessed with lavatories. In his day, wrongs to be righted were clearer, more elemental. The ruling peeps, the economic elite, were transparently bad. All the brainy bods were on the Left, marrying morality to intellect, seeking to tip the balance towards equality, to equilibrium, and not – as now – past it to perpetual disharmony. Today, with a ruling elite more left-wing than the workers, no one knows what socialism means beyond something to do with minority rights and yonder environment. Among the proletariat in the schemes it's about as popular as Viz magazine's Leo Tolstoy action figures. As economic theory, i.e. more then mere cultural complaint, it prevails only among boomers, like the present writer, too embarrassed to revisit the certainties of their youth and still insistent, when drunk, that it could work if it weren't for human nature, bad people, lazy people, greedy people. Ye ken: real life. But here we're talking fiction, as set out in three beautifully lyrical volumes. We're talking about a pivotal work of 20th century Scottish literature, one whose first volume has not unnaturally been dropped as a set text in the school curriculum. Former First Minister Nicola Sturgeon described it as 'one of the first books that had me utterly captivated by the lyricism of language and the power of place'. Its heroine, Chris Guthrie 'spoke to, and helped me make sense of, the girl I was'. That was back in the day when she knew what a girl was. On 13 February 1901, a boy was born into a farming family at Hillhead of Seggat, Auchterless, Aberdeenshire. From the age of seven, that boy, James Leslie Mitchell – Grassic Gibbon's real name – was raised in Arbuthnott, in the former county of Kincardineshire. Educated at the parish school and at Mackie Academy in Stonehaven, he departed the latter precipitately after arguing with a teacher. h Novel approach Outside school, he upset the Mearns folk with opinions deemed inappropriate to their way of life. He'd stick his head in a book than into the soil. In 1917, aged 16, he ran away to Aberdeen, became a cub reporter on a local paper, and tried to make the city a soviet in solidarity with the Russian Revolution. Moving to Glasgow, he got a job on Farmers Weekly, where presumably he kept his doubts about agricultural work hidden, while the city's slums and Red Clydeside movement only intensified his zeal. This got him sacked – for fiddling expenses to make donations to the British Socialist Party. Attempted suicide followed, so his family took him back in, hoping rural life might steady him. It did not. In 1919, more for food and lodgings than patriotic duty, he joined the Royal Army Service Corps, serving in Iran, India and Egypt before enlisting as a clerk in the Royal Air Force in 1923, leading to more time in the Middle East. In 1925, Mitchell returned to Arbuthnott to marry local girl Rebecca (Ray or Rhea) Middleton. The couple moved to cheap lodgings in London, where the going was tough until they moved to Welwyn Garden City, Hertfordshire, several million miles from the Mearns. Here, James began writing full time, producing 4,000-odd words a day, including journalism and travel literature. His first book, Hanno: or the Future of Exploration, was published in 1928. Drawing heavily on diffusionism – aye – it investigated the origin of cultural traits, contending that the North-East was full of Picts. READ MORE Rab McNeil: Get your Boots on, we're going shopping for unicorn hair gel Rab McNeil: No wonder the whole Scottish nation loves Nicola (no, not that one) Scottish Icons: William McGonagall - The poet who right bad verses wrote still floats some folk's vessel or boat Scottish Icons: There is a lot of tripe talked about haggis – so here's the truth Going ape In 1932, he used the pseudonym Lewis Grassic Gibbon, from his maternal grandmother's name Lilias Grassick Gibbon, for the first time, when Sunset Song was published. It was the first, and best, in A Scots Quair, which made Gibbon's name. Written in earthy dialect, Sunset Song begins the story of Chris Guthrie, described by Paul Foot in never popular magazine Socialist Review as 'more remarkable than any female character in Jane Austen, George Eliot or even the Brontes'. Her common sense, good nature and level head steer her through life's enervating tragedies, with a narrative matching her progress to the Mearns farming year. The First World War ruins everything, a way of life, the actual lives of young men, even the soil-securing trees (cut down for the war effort). On top of that, the economy had already been moving from rural agriculture to urban manufacturing, from past to future. Not that the old way of life was perfect, in a community riddled with lust, feuds and gossip. Grassic Gibbon was, to put it mildly, ambivalent about agricultural and rural life. Chris shares that ambivalence, drawn towards education and away from the drudgery and narrow horizons of a farming community. She has first to escape the clutches of her father, an ill-tempered, bullying, pious, hypocritical fellow. Men, eh? She marries one, Ewan Tavendale, but the War sees him off too: shot as a deserter. Sunset Song has a political message, but one shot through with humour: ' … Ellison said he was a Bolshevik, one of those awful creatures, coarse tinks, that made such a spleiter in Russia. They'd shot their King-creature, the Tsar they called him, and they bedded all over the place, folk said, a man would go home and find his wife commandeered any bit night and Lenin and Trotsky lying with her.' Grey outlook A Scots Quair moves from village to town to city. Often seen as Sunset Song's poorer companions, Cloud Howe and Grey Granite contrast the Christian socialism of Robert Colquhoun (Chris's second husband) with the hardline Communism of her son. Chris, a grounded quine, focuses more on the eternal verities, where only the land endures, however much subject to change. 'Change … whose right hand was Death and whose left hand Life might be stayed by none of the dreams of men …' Life's trancience ever haunts her: "Their play was done and they were gone …' Life was cruelly transient for Lewis Grassic Gibbon. On 7 February 1935, he died in Welwyn Garden City after an operation for a perforated gastric ulcer. He was 33-years-old. His ashes were buried in the Mearns.
Cambrian News
02-05-2025
- Automotive
- Cambrian News
A feast of rugby at the popular Aber7s rugby festival
There will be a parking charge for all vehicles; (£4 per day) or £6 for both days online. This will need to be obtained by an AberSU staff member (in Hi Viz) who will be at the parking site OR can be pre-paid online.
Telegraph
13-04-2025
- Business
- Telegraph
Workplace etiquette has gone to the dogs – these rules can bring it back
Ruthless, he must be, I thought: some kind of Ivan the Terrible of the office. A man without fear, a dictator, a veritable piste basher flattening all the snowflakes. For surely, these days, a boss can't address his company and dish out admonishments? One word of criticism and there'd be a stampede to the psychiatrist's couch. The website Glassdoor, on which employees share horror stories ('My boyfriend had dumped me and my beast of a manager made me come in to work…'), might crash under the weight of anonymous postings about bullying and harassment. So, how refreshing this week to read of a missive from Jamie Dimon, the chief executive of JPMorgan Chase, in which, in no uncertain terms, he dished it out to his employees. 'I see people in meetings all the time who are getting notifications and personal texts or who are reading emails. This has to stop. It's disrespectful. It wastes time,' he raged. Perhaps, at that very moment, shivering underlings reached for their phones, seeking out the crying emoji, #traumadump. Might there now be rumblings of discontent that spill over into HR, and then ensuing investigations, official warnings, a suspension pending further enquiries? Well, given that 69-year-old Dimon has run America's biggest bank since 2006 and is known as 'the $25 billion man', in reference to how much the stock would drop if he left tomorrow, this is unlikely. Having woken at 5am, read all the papers, exercised and travelled to his office in midtown Manhattan, where he runs a bank that operates in 100 countries and employs 250,000 people, when he says: 'Stop looking at your phone', you stop looking at your phone and you don't complain about it. And Dimon does the whole world a favour as he lays the laws of some much-needed office etiquette. 'Talk like you speak; get rid of the jargon,' he also wrote in his letter to shareholders. He also warned people against virtue signalling and said, 'More and more people are being disrespectful, condescending and unwilling to listen to one another.' Dimon reminds me of a great boss I once had, one John Brown. Each month, he would gather all staff into the office café and address us. First he'd soften us up with readings from the latest issue of his beloved Viz, the magazine he proudly, and very successfully, published. Having read out some choice snippets from Roger's Profanisaurus, as the laughing faded he'd dish out some truths. 'Work starts at 9.30am' he might say. 'That's 9.30am. That doesn't mean you get to the office at 9.30am, have some breakfast, get some coffee, chat with your buddies and then think about walking to your desk. It means starting work at 9.30am.' He also had a firm company rule that no meeting should last longer than an hour. To which I would add the following 10 rules: Do not bring your laptop to a meeting. You might say it's there for writing notes, but we all know you're watching Netflix, albeit muted with subtitles on. And don't claim you need it in case a client emails. It can wait. It is only your demented fetish that makes you think anyone needs a reply within 30 seconds of receipt. Place your phone face down during meetings. Even if it so much as shimmers, do not look at or touch it. And don't think we don't know you're cheating by glimpsing at your Apple Watch. If you're chatting to a colleague in the office, do not look at your phone until the conversation is over. Do not walk through the office looking at your phone. You're not that important. No one is. And if they are, they don't look at their phones – they have people to do that for them. If you're out to lunch with colleagues, friends, even Grandma, do not place your phone by your side as if to say: 'Whatever is on my phone is more important than you, so when it buzzes, I'll be looking at it.' (I once had lunch with a self-important chum who brandished two phones. 'The second one is in case I'm on the first and someone needs to tell me something important.' Needless to say, over two hours, neither even buzzed.) Do not consistently work late. It does not impress anyone; it merely suggests you can't control your own workflow or delegate efficiently. Never eat at your desk. It's unhygienic (if your desk is dirty), antisocial (if we don't like the smell of it) and selfish (if we do). Do not type loudly (and if you do, like me, stay away from the office – see rule 10) or discuss football. Do not take off your shoes, nor wear shorts (men). Do not go to the office and don't attend meetings. This is one rule by which I abide, thus avoiding any of the above dangers.
The Independent
07-04-2025
- Entertainment
- The Independent
Like it or not, Kevin & Perry Go Large was proud British cinema – now it's all but gone
The laws of physics are challenged early in Kevin & Perry Go Large, when Harry Enfield's sullen, spotty teenager foils a bank robbery with his erection. Later on in the film – one of the most successful British movies in UK box office history – the camera is splattered by the gloop from an infected belly-button piercing, Kathy Burke cops off in a sand dune while dressed in full Gallagher-brother drag, and a third-act cameo is provided by EastEnders ' Phil Mitchell. Kevin & Perry Go Large, about a pair of sex-starved mates attempting to lose their virginity in Ibiza, is absolute tosh. But it's our tosh: the product of a nation that invented Viz, Lucozade, and Denise van Outen. And 25 years ago this month, it was the sort of slapdash, locally made and proudly creaky tosh that British audiences regularly flocked to see. Today, though, things are different. And it begs a simple question: did the movies change, or did we? The year 2000 is often considered a nadir in the story of the British film industry, with too many nascent production companies – each flush with National Lottery funding – trying to make their own Guy Ritchie movies, or their own spins on Richard Curtis, or films designed to capitalise on the (questionable) allure of the Primrose Hill set. Numerous releases became punchlines in their own right: the office romcom Janice Beard 45 WPM with Patsy Kensit and Rhys Ifans; the grotty gangland turkey Rancid Aluminium with Sadie Frost and Rhys Ifans; the... err... equally grotty gangland turkey Love, Honour and Obey with Sadie Frost and Rhys Ifans. Others have been largely forgotten: Kelly Macdonald's bingo hall comedy House!; the clubland murder mystery Sorted; the unholy union of disco music, psychic powers and a naked Stephen Fry titled Whatever Happened to Harold Smith? I will not lie and declare these films any good, likewise many of the Britflicks that came and went through cinemas soon after the millennium. Even if you wear the thickest of nostalgia goggles, you won't find a secret cult classic in Honest, Dave Stewart's infamous Swinging Sixties crime thriller in which three members of the pop group All Saints dropped acid and took their tops off. But to watch any of these films again is to be immersed in work that could only ever be made in Britain. And – with that in mind – it's staggering just how expansive the term 'British film' used to be. At the other end of the quality spectrum, homegrown cinema meant that year's Purely Belter, an endearingly chintzy Geordie comedy about teenage Newcastle United supporters. It also meant Wonderland, Michael Winterbottom's tender ensemble drama about lonely, alienated Londoners. We had range. Upon its release, Kevin & Perry Go Large was often contrasted with the previous year's American Pie, another sex comedy about prurient teens, albeit one with a far less grubby bent. It was 'more sophisticated fare', as Empire magazine put it at the time – some claim for a film built around a scene in which Jason Biggs has sex with a dessert. But I suppose it's accurate: whereas American Pie cast nebbishly handsome men and some of the most beautiful women of 1999 to play its horny yet earnest adolescents, Kevin & Perry is almost overwhelmingly ghoulish-looking. Enfield and Burke, who originated the characters on the Nineties sketch show Harry Enfield & Chums, transform themselves into greasy-haired monsters; tantrum-throwing grotesques with craven libidos and a wardrobe of sagging shell suits. American Pie boasted Barenaked Ladies, Third Eye Blind and Norah Jones on its soundtrack. Kevin & Perry Go Large is built around a novelty dance track in which the pair repeatedly chant: 'All I wanna do is do it – big girl, big girl'. It went to No 16 in the UK Top 40. A Variety article in 2000 reported that Paramount Pictures did pick up Kevin & Perry for US distribution – with plans to position it as a British spin on Beavis and Butt-Head, apparently – but an actual release didn't seem to materialise. It's largely unthinkable for America to ever have 'got' the film, though, with its 'top shelf of a newsagent magazine rack' set pieces and laddish frivolity. Its entire creative approach is as British as bangers and mash, its aspirations admirably local. Over time, British films like Kevin & Perry – meaning ones devoid of obvious global appeal – have become increasingly unusual, and rarely trouble the box office like they once did. Think Mike Leigh's mesmeric Hard Truths, Molly Manning Walker's holiday-from-hell drama How to Have Sex, or the little-seen 2024 comedy Seize Them! with Aimee Lou Wood. Think queer dramas Layla and Unicorns, or the Christmas movie Boxing Day, or recent film versions of TV series including Bad Education, The Inbetweeners and People Just Do Nothing. All worthy slices of thoroughgoing Britainalia, and satisfying to varying taste levels, yet few of them found a deserving audience. The possible reasons for this are tenfold. The internet age is one defined by homogenisation and an Americanisation of creativity, while the genres that for years British film seemed to champion (comedy, romances, gritty character studies, even costume dramas) have largely migrated to television. Cinema tickets are expensive, and audiences are conditioned only to want to pay for blockbuster spectacle – something that is rarely financially viable for the UK film industry, and that, arguably, we've never been particularly good at making anyway. Still, it is concerning for the future of British cultural identity as a whole. Numerous industry power players have spoken in recent years of the crisis in UK film funding, and the increasing threat to specifically British storytelling. Statistics last year from the BFI were a sobering read: the overwhelming majority of film production spend in 2024 (87 per cent of it, in fact) was on 'inward' productions such as Edgar Wright's The Running Man, the live-action version of How to Train Your Dragon, and the next Knives Out sequel – films with largely American casts, American backers and global reach. 'Domestic' productions – meaning films with a more overtly British bent and British backers – made up just nine per cent of spend. Is it any wonder, then, that Britain is in such a cultural drought when so many of the films we make might just as well have been made anywhere? And that while movies including Barbie and Wicked – which were shot at Warner Bros Studios in Hertfordshire – helped inject millions into the UK economy, they barely spoke to British culture or British society, or reflected anything about our everyday existence. For all the criticism levelled 25 years ago at British cinema's Class of 2000, it's impossible to deny that films like Kevin & Perry, Purely Belter and Rancid Aluminium were ours. It was easy to see our humour in them. Our lives and foibles. Our teeth. Someone get Rhys Ifans's agent on the phone and tell them we need him pronto.
