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Russia Today
a day ago
- Entertainment
- Russia Today
It's time to learn about the Russian sound you hear every time you scroll
Not long ago, 'internet music' meant something soft, silly, or ironic. Think 'Nyan Cat', vaporwave edits, lo-fi loops. Even TikTok's early soundtracks leaned toward mellow, melodic moods. But in the past three years, something has shifted. Internet music got louder. Faster. Harder. One meme captures the moment perfectly: Three pirates from a Soviet cartoon strut across a beach with absurd confidence. The animation is exaggerated, the visuals low-res. But paired with a cowbell-heavy, distorted beat, it suddenly looks – incredibly – cool. The clip goes viral. The music? Pure phonk. Today, phonk is everywhere: In gym edits, drift montages, anime cuts, sports highlights. Its raw, lo-fi rhythms have become the default soundtrack of short-form video culture. And yet, few know the names behind the sound. The tracks rack up millions of plays, but the artists remain anonymous. There's a reason for that: Most of them are Russian. Phonk didn't just find a home in Russia – it was reborn there. In the absence of industry infrastructure, labels, or PR teams, the genre evolved in unexpected ways. What began as an underground echo of 1990s Memphis rap has become something new: A Russian internet-native genre reshaping global soundscapes. To trace phonk's roots, you have to go back to Memphis in the early 1990s – a city where a new kind of rap was taking shape in bedrooms, basements, and borrowed tape decks. Memphis rap was bleak. Dark. The lyrics were grim, even by hip-hop standards – raw accounts of street violence, poverty, drug paranoia, and death. There were no anthems, no aspirations. Just survival and menace, spat into handheld mics in airless rooms. The sound matched the message. These tracks were muddy, lo-fi, and haunting – warped by cheap gear, copied across dying cassette tapes, soaked in static and hiss. Melodies were scarce. Basslines throbbed like threats. And then there was the cowbell: A cheap percussion hit that somehow made the darkness danceable. It became a signature – a sharp clang cutting through the murk like a flicker of light. Though Memphis rap never broke into the mainstream, its shadow lingered. It helped shape the rise of Southern hip-hop and gave birth to entire branches of modern trap. But for a small group of producers, the real magic wasn't in the verses – it was in the atmosphere. They stripped away the vocals, looped the beats, and amplified the distortion. That was the beginning of phonk. An underground genre formed from the bones of Memphis rap, early phonk was rough, instrumental, and ghostlike – the sound of a memory sampled and reassembled. It lived mostly online, drifting through forums and obscure playlists. And then, halfway across the world, someone in Russia heard it – and something clicked. By the early 2010s, Russian music was shifting. Rap and electronic sounds had finally gone mainstream, even among older listeners raised on Soviet pop. But inside the industry, many producers were restless. Tired of making safe, generic beats for big-name rappers, they began searching for something different. Some drifted into battle rap and small indie labels. Others stumbled onto phonk. One of the first was Kirill Shoma. He discovered phonk online and wanted to make it – but couldn't find any Russian-language tutorials. So he taught himself, then recorded one. That video became a kind of seed: Dozens of young producers copied his method, sharing beats made on cracked software and budget gear in makeshift bedroom studios. Shoma wasn't signed to any label. His tracks didn't meet industry standards – they were too raw, too lo-fi, too niche. So he simply uploaded them online, with no licensing, no copyright protections, no monetization. But that made them perfect for creators. Russian car vloggers – especially those filming drift videos – began using his tracks. The music was fast, punchy, and copyright-safe. No strikes. No takedowns. Soon, entire playlists labeled 'Drift Phonk' began to circulate. Shoma's beats added rhythm and tension to dashboard footage and smoky turns. The genre wasn't just a sound anymore. It became a visual language – internet-native, DIY, and made to move. Then, in 2020, something changed. Shoma's friends told him he was blowing up on TikTok. Curious, he opened the app – and saw that his track had been used in over 200,000 videos. The number was growing daily. He still wasn't earning money from it. But people were listening. And the right people were starting to notice. For years, no label wanted Shoma. His tracks were too raw, too repetitive, too niche. But after his TikTok explosion, that changed. A team from the international label Black 17 reached out and offered him professional collaboration – his first. He had tried before, but no one was interested. Phonk's trademark sound seemed too rough, too amateur, too far from mainstream standards. Later, Kiljo – a Russian producer working at Black 17 – recalled how industry experts who had passed on Shoma were kicking themselves for missing the wave. With label support, Shoma gained access to streaming platforms and formal distribution. But he wasn't alone for long. A Russian curator at Black 17 launched a major phonk playlist on Spotify – first centered around Shoma's tracks, then expanding to include a wide range of new artists. Many of them had learned the basics from his early tutorials. But each phonker had their own take. DVRST, one of the most well-known names, leaned into internet nostalgia, mixing phonk beats with samples from anime, video games, and vintage commercials. His remix of the Soviet pop track 'Komarovo', recorded for the alt-futurist video game 'Atomic Heart', became a viral favorite. SHADXWBXRN blended classic phonk elements with ambient textures, building a strong connection with his online audience. LXST CXNTURY, by contrast, pushed toward heavier, more aggressive sounds – but kept a low profile, avoiding interviews and personal promotion. There was no formula. No dominant style. No single voice. Just a growing cluster of independent Russian producers, each building their own version of phonk – track by track, feed by feed. Like most underground genres, phonk eventually hit a turning point. As more producers joined in, the genre began to mutate. Some Russian phonkers started adding vocals – not brags or flexes, but raw emotional lyrics. It turned out that cowbells and vulnerability could coexist surprisingly well. Others rapped about their favorite game, 'Dota 2' – a cornerstone of Russian internet culture. A new subgenre, Dota rap, emerged. A few dared to touch the sacred cow: Russian pop. One remix of the ballad 'Zima' racked up millions of views – despite disapproval from the original artists. Phonk had started as texture. Now, it was voice. As Russian phonk gained traction online, it began echoing far beyond its point of origin. Tracks by little-known producers – some with barely a profile picture – started showing up in memes, fight montages, football promos, and streetwear ads. The sound was everywhere. The names behind it? Still obscure. One of the most successful examples of this crossover was KORDHELL – British producer Michael Kenney – who rode the phonk wave to global visibility. Like many before him, he turned to phonk after growing tired of the constraints of commercial rap. His tracks embraced the genre's signature darkness and repetition – and quickly became internet hits. By this point, Russian phonk had stopped being a regional scene. It had become a global aesthetic: Minimal, aggressive, anonymous, and instantly memeable. In a way, it was the perfect genre for the algorithm – high-impact, easy to sync, emotionally blank enough to be reshaped by whatever visuals it accompanied. And yet the cultural asymmetry remained. Clips from major European football clubs now routinely feature Russian phonk beats, often set to videos of players entering the stadium or warming up. The lyrics – if there are any – are in Russian. The artists are uncredited. But the views number in the millions. No one is really hiding the source. But no one's advertising it either. Still, the producers benefit. Fans dig through track IDs, repost clips, build comment threads. A track might go viral in Istanbul or Sao Paulo, and within a day, the name behind it starts trending – on Telegram, on SoundCloud, on niche Discord servers. Phonk, in this sense, reflects a shift in how global music works. It's not just about contracts, tours, or chart positions. It's about being everywhere at once – even if no one knows your name. The rise of short-form video rewired how we consume content. Attention became instant and disposable. To survive the scroll, a clip had to hit fast, look sharp, and never slow down. Phonk fits this rhythm perfectly. It's fast, repetitive, atmospheric. No intros. No soft fades. Just impact. Whether it's street drifting, gym reels, or aesthetic edits, phonk drives the visuals forward. But the genre also plays with contrast. Put a mundane scene under a phonk track – a walk to the store, a vintage cartoon, a guy tying his shoes – and it becomes something else. Stylized. Absurd. Cool. That's the trick: Phonk makes anything look intentional. Maybe that's why it traveled so well. It doesn't demand attention. It hijacks it. It doesn't explain. It enhances. There's no need to know who made it, or why. In a feed, it just works. Phonk didn't ask for permission. It didn't arrive through curated scenes or label deals. It slipped in sideways – through smoke, static, and memes – and took over the internet without showing its face. And somehow, that feels fitting. Its traits – lo-fi grit, emotional blankness, dark momentum – echo a broader cultural mood: Speed without direction, visibility without identity, noise without resolution. A post-Soviet undertone in a post-algorithmic world. I once interviewed Russian bare-knuckle boxer Denis 'Hurricane' Dula. When I asked why so many fighters walk out to phonk, he shrugged: 'Some pick folk songs to show their roots. I get it. But no offense – I think phonk fits better. Feels more Russian right now.' He couldn't explain why. But somehow, he was right.
Russia Today
3 days ago
- Entertainment
- Russia Today
Your feed is full of Russian music. You just didn't know it.
Not long ago, 'internet music' meant something soft, silly, or ironic. Think 'Nyan Cat', vaporwave edits, lo-fi loops. Even TikTok's early soundtracks leaned toward mellow, melodic moods. But in the past three years, something has shifted. Internet music got louder. Faster. Harder. One meme captures the moment perfectly: Three pirates from a Soviet cartoon strut across a beach with absurd confidence. The animation is exaggerated, the visuals low-res. But paired with a cowbell-heavy, distorted beat, it suddenly looks – incredibly – cool. The clip goes viral. The music? Pure phonk. Today, phonk is everywhere: In gym edits, drift montages, anime cuts, sports highlights. Its raw, lo-fi rhythms have become the default soundtrack of short-form video culture. And yet, few know the names behind the sound. The tracks rack up millions of plays, but the artists remain anonymous. There's a reason for that: Most of them are Russian. Phonk didn't just find a home in Russia – it was reborn there. In the absence of industry infrastructure, labels, or PR teams, the genre evolved in unexpected ways. What began as an underground echo of 1990s Memphis rap has become something new: A Russian internet-native genre reshaping global soundscapes. To trace phonk's roots, you have to go back to Memphis in the early 1990s – a city where a new kind of rap was taking shape in bedrooms, basements, and borrowed tape decks. Memphis rap was bleak. Dark. The lyrics were grim, even by hip-hop standards – raw accounts of street violence, poverty, drug paranoia, and death. There were no anthems, no aspirations. Just survival and menace, spat into handheld mics in airless rooms. The sound matched the message. These tracks were muddy, lo-fi, and haunting – warped by cheap gear, copied across dying cassette tapes, soaked in static and hiss. Melodies were scarce. Basslines throbbed like threats. And then there was the cowbell: A cheap percussion hit that somehow made the darkness danceable. It became a signature – a sharp clang cutting through the murk like a flicker of light. Though Memphis rap never broke into the mainstream, its shadow lingered. It helped shape the rise of Southern hip-hop and gave birth to entire branches of modern trap. But for a small group of producers, the real magic wasn't in the verses – it was in the atmosphere. They stripped away the vocals, looped the beats, and amplified the distortion. That was the beginning of phonk. An underground genre formed from the bones of Memphis rap, early phonk was rough, instrumental, and ghostlike – the sound of a memory sampled and reassembled. It lived mostly online, drifting through forums and obscure playlists. And then, halfway across the world, someone in Russia heard it – and something clicked. By the early 2010s, Russian music was shifting. Rap and electronic sounds had finally gone mainstream, even among older listeners raised on Soviet pop. But inside the industry, many producers were restless. Tired of making safe, generic beats for big-name rappers, they began searching for something different. Some drifted into battle rap and small indie labels. Others stumbled onto phonk. One of the first was Kirill Shoma. He discovered phonk online and wanted to make it – but couldn't find any Russian-language tutorials. So he taught himself, then recorded one. That video became a kind of seed: Dozens of young producers copied his method, sharing beats made on cracked software and budget gear in makeshift bedroom studios. Shoma wasn't signed to any label. His tracks didn't meet industry standards – they were too raw, too lo-fi, too niche. So he simply uploaded them online, with no licensing, no copyright protections, no monetization. But that made them perfect for creators. Russian car vloggers – especially those filming drift videos – began using his tracks. The music was fast, punchy, and copyright-safe. No strikes. No takedowns. Soon, entire playlists labeled 'Drift Phonk' began to circulate. Shoma's beats added rhythm and tension to dashboard footage and smoky turns. The genre wasn't just a sound anymore. It became a visual language – internet-native, DIY, and made to move. Then, in 2020, something changed. Shoma's friends told him he was blowing up on TikTok. Curious, he opened the app – and saw that his track had been used in over 200,000 videos. The number was growing daily. He still wasn't earning money from it. But people were listening. And the right people were starting to notice. For years, no label wanted Shoma. His tracks were too raw, too repetitive, too niche. But after his TikTok explosion, that changed. A team from the international label Black 17 reached out and offered him professional collaboration – his first. He had tried before, but no one was interested. Phonk's trademark sound seemed too rough, too amateur, too far from mainstream standards. Later, Kiljo – a Russian producer working at Black 17 – recalled how industry experts who had passed on Shoma were kicking themselves for missing the wave. With label support, Shoma gained access to streaming platforms and formal distribution. But he wasn't alone for long. A Russian curator at Black 17 launched a major phonk playlist on Spotify – first centered around Shoma's tracks, then expanding to include a wide range of new artists. Many of them had learned the basics from his early tutorials. But each phonker had their own take. DVRST, one of the most well-known names, leaned into internet nostalgia, mixing phonk beats with samples from anime, video games, and vintage commercials. His remix of the Soviet pop track 'Komarovo', recorded for the alt-futurist video game 'Atomic Heart', became a viral favorite. SHADXWBXRN blended classic phonk elements with ambient textures, building a strong connection with his online audience. LXST CXNTURY, by contrast, pushed toward heavier, more aggressive sounds – but kept a low profile, avoiding interviews and personal promotion. There was no formula. No dominant style. No single voice. Just a growing cluster of independent Russian producers, each building their own version of phonk – track by track, feed by feed. Like most underground genres, phonk eventually hit a turning point. As more producers joined in, the genre began to mutate. Some Russian phonkers started adding vocals – not brags or flexes, but raw emotional lyrics. It turned out that cowbells and vulnerability could coexist surprisingly well. Others rapped about their favorite game, 'Dota 2' – a cornerstone of Russian internet culture. A new subgenre, Dota rap, emerged. A few dared to touch the sacred cow: Russian pop. One remix of the ballad 'Zima' racked up millions of views – despite disapproval from the original artists. Phonk had started as texture. Now, it was voice. As Russian phonk gained traction online, it began echoing far beyond its point of origin. Tracks by little-known producers – some with barely a profile picture – started showing up in memes, fight montages, football promos, and streetwear ads. The sound was everywhere. The names behind it? Still obscure. One of the most successful examples of this crossover was KORDHELL – British producer Michael Kenney – who rode the phonk wave to global visibility. Like many before him, he turned to phonk after growing tired of the constraints of commercial rap. His tracks embraced the genre's signature darkness and repetition – and quickly became internet hits. By this point, Russian phonk had stopped being a regional scene. It had become a global aesthetic: Minimal, aggressive, anonymous, and instantly memeable. In a way, it was the perfect genre for the algorithm – high-impact, easy to sync, emotionally blank enough to be reshaped by whatever visuals it accompanied. And yet the cultural asymmetry remained. Clips from major European football clubs now routinely feature Russian phonk beats, often set to videos of players entering the stadium or warming up. The lyrics – if there are any – are in Russian. The artists are uncredited. But the views number in the millions. No one is really hiding the source. But no one's advertising it either. Still, the producers benefit. Fans dig through track IDs, repost clips, build comment threads. A track might go viral in Istanbul or Sao Paulo, and within a day, the name behind it starts trending – on Telegram, on SoundCloud, on niche Discord servers. Phonk, in this sense, reflects a shift in how global music works. It's not just about contracts, tours, or chart positions. It's about being everywhere at once – even if no one knows your name. The rise of short-form video rewired how we consume content. Attention became instant and disposable. To survive the scroll, a clip had to hit fast, look sharp, and never slow down. Phonk fits this rhythm perfectly. It's fast, repetitive, atmospheric. No intros. No soft fades. Just impact. Whether it's street drifting, gym reels, or aesthetic edits, phonk drives the visuals forward. But the genre also plays with contrast. Put a mundane scene under a phonk track – a walk to the store, a vintage cartoon, a guy tying his shoes – and it becomes something else. Stylized. Absurd. Cool. That's the trick: Phonk makes anything look intentional. Maybe that's why it traveled so well. It doesn't demand attention. It hijacks it. It doesn't explain. It enhances. There's no need to know who made it, or why. In a feed, it just works. Phonk didn't ask for permission. It didn't arrive through curated scenes or label deals. It slipped in sideways – through smoke, static, and memes – and took over the internet without showing its face. And somehow, that feels fitting. Its traits – lo-fi grit, emotional blankness, dark momentum – echo a broader cultural mood: Speed without direction, visibility without identity, noise without resolution. A post-Soviet undertone in a post-algorithmic world. I once interviewed Russian bare-knuckle boxer Denis 'Hurricane' Dula. When I asked why so many fighters walk out to phonk, he shrugged: 'Some pick folk songs to show their roots. I get it. But no offense – I think phonk fits better. Feels more Russian right now.' He couldn't explain why. But somehow, he was right.
Sustainability Times
6 days ago
- Business
- Sustainability Times
Buried Reactors, Silent Power: Deep Fission's Radical Nuclear Plan Could Revolutionize How the World Feeds Its Data Machines
IN A NUTSHELL 💡 Deep Fission plans to revolutionize energy by burying micro-reactors underground to power data centers efficiently. plans to revolutionize energy by burying underground to power data centers efficiently. 🤝 Strategic partnerships with companies like Endeavour highlight the growing trend of leveraging nuclear power in the tech industry. highlight the growing trend of leveraging nuclear power in the tech industry. 🔧 The use of small modular reactors (SMRs) promises cost reduction and increased accessibility through mass production techniques. promises cost reduction and increased accessibility through mass production techniques. 📈 Despite regulatory challenges, Deep Fission targets operational status by 2029, potentially transforming the U.S. nuclear landscape. The concept of burying nuclear reactors underground might seem like a scene from a sci-fi movie, but it's becoming a reality thanks to innovative startups like Deep Fission. In a world grappling with escalating energy demands, especially from data centers powering AI technologies, traditional energy sources are being pushed to their limits. As a response, the nuclear sector is undergoing a renaissance, with companies exploring groundbreaking ways to generate clean and efficient power. Deep Fission, in collaboration with data center developer Endeavour, aims to harness subterranean nuclear power to meet these demands. But how exactly does this approach work, and what implications does it have for the future of energy? The Rise of Subterranean Nuclear Power The 1950s marked the beginning of underground nuclear testing as countries sought to minimize fallout from aboveground detonations. Fast forward to today, and this concept of using the earth as a natural barrier is being revisited by Deep Fission. By lowering small modular reactors into one-mile-deep boreholes, the company aims to utilize the insulating properties of the earth to safeguard its operations. This method not only promises enhanced safety but could also reduce the need for the tons of concrete traditionally required for reactor construction. Deep Fission's partnership with Endeavour signals a significant step toward realizing this vision, with plans to generate 2 gigawatts of subterranean nuclear power. The startup's innovative approach aligns with the growing trend among nuclear companies to develop compact reactors that can be mass-produced, subsequently lowering costs and increasing accessibility. The collaboration also underscores a broader effort within the tech industry to secure reliable and sustainable energy sources to fuel the ever-increasing computational power required by AI technologies. '18 Hours Without Cooling': Nuclear Reactor Left Unprotected After Technician Closes Wrong Valve in Alarming Safety Breach Strategic Partnerships and Investments Strategic partnerships are at the core of Deep Fission's approach, as demonstrated by its recent deal with Endeavour. Although the financial terms of the agreement remain undisclosed, it highlights the trust and confidence stakeholders have in the startup's vision. The partnership is part of a broader trend where tech giants like Google and Amazon are turning to nuclear startups to meet their energy needs. For instance, Google has teamed up with Kairos for 500 megawatts of reactors, while Amazon collaborates with X-Energy for around 300 megawatts. These alliances emphasize the importance of sustainable and efficient energy solutions in the tech industry. As data centers continue to expand globally, their energy consumption increases, necessitating innovative solutions like those offered by Deep Fission. Such partnerships not only showcase the potential of nuclear power in a modern context but also highlight the critical role of investment in driving technological advancements and sustainability efforts. 'Elusive Plasma Voids Found': US Scientists Crack Tokamak Confinement Mystery After Decades of Global Fusion Frustration The Promise of Small Modular Reactors At the heart of Deep Fission's strategy is the use of small modular reactors (SMRs). These reactors offer numerous advantages over traditional nuclear power plants, primarily due to their compact size and modular design. By utilizing mass production techniques, SMRs promise to significantly reduce the cost of nuclear power, making it a more viable option for widespread adoption. Their smaller footprint also allows for easier integration into existing infrastructure, maximizing land use efficiency. Deep Fission's reactors employ pressurized-water designs, a reliable technology used in various applications, from nuclear submarines to large-scale power plants. This approach highlights the adaptability and versatility of SMRs, making them suitable for a wide range of energy needs. The ability to generate power at a cost of five to seven cents per kilowatt-hour positions Deep Fission as a competitive player in the energy market, with the potential to revolutionize how we think about nuclear power. 'America Races to Catch China': U.S. Fast-Tracks Nuclear Reactor Testing in Urgent Bid to Regain Global Energy Lead Regulatory Challenges and Future Prospects Despite the promising prospects of subterranean nuclear power, regulatory approval remains a significant hurdle for startups like Deep Fission. The company began the licensing process with the Nuclear Regulatory Commission (NRC) in March, facing a timeline that, historically, could span several years. However, recent changes in legislation have introduced an 18-month limit for the NRC to approve or reject small modular reactors, expediting the process and providing a clearer path for innovation. As Deep Fission targets operational status for its first reactor by 2029, it joins a wave of companies poised to transform the nuclear landscape in the U.S. While the path to regulatory approval is fraught with challenges, the potential benefits of this technology are undeniable. As the world continues to seek sustainable and efficient energy solutions, could subterranean nuclear power be the breakthrough we've been waiting for? This article is based on verified sources and supported by editorial technologies. Did you like it? 4.5/5 (27)
The Review Geek
11-07-2025
- Entertainment
- The Review Geek
Smoke – Season 1 Episode 4 Recap & Review
Strawberry Episode 4 of Smoke begins with David Gudsen giving a presentation about arson. All the other officers are in attendance, including Calderone who watches from the back. It's a rather unconventional speech, especially when Dave mentions how chaos beats order every time and starts a couple of small fires. After, Calderone heads off to visit her brother, Benji. He's organizing underground cockfighting and he apologizes for lashing out at her. He's off the booze now (two whole days!) and the pair get along well. Being here does give Michelle another idea though and that comes from the bird tags. She believes they can place the tags in bags and stack them in numerical order, have a clerk write down the numbers while working, and when they find a tag from the arsonist, trace it back to the CCTV footage and count the number of customers. It's pretty ingenious and Englehart also goes for it too. Meanwhile, things between Emmett and Dave are still awkward. Ashley tries to stick up for her partner but Emmett is convinced that he's two-faced. Gudsen is avoiding heading home though after their big fight, and instead winds up drinking with Calderone in the office. As they talk, they discuss the different paths in life people are given and the changing fortunes therein. Dave opens up here, admitting that when he was 15 his mum just disappeared. They called the police and had a search party out but she wound up skipping town and head off with a substitute teacher because she wanted a fresh start. Instead of feeling sorry for himself, Gudsen decided to pretend she was dead and moved on. Now, Gudsen won't be in town for the weekend either, given he's got an arson conference in Leighton When he does head home and speaks to Emmett in the morning, he tries to apologize, in a roundabout way. Ashley throws a lifeline out, suggesting he pick up his stepson up from practice after school. Unfortunately, Gudsen loses track of time and he shows up at the office, where she bumps into Michelle. As for Calderone, she finds old business cards in her desk belonging to an agent called Ezra Esposito. This is the man Dave was working with before she showed up. The files have been sealed and there's no getting in right now. Michelle offers to give Emmett a lift home, which is probably just as well given it gives her a crucial clue. Emmett tells her that 'nobody knows Dave Gudsen' and he also has no knowledge of this Esposito character. Naturally, Michelle decides to butter Englehart up and find out about Esposito. Apparently he shot himself in the foot and he sued the department. To try and keep this quiet, they gave him the entire retirement plan. However, he became convinced that Gudsen was their arsonist. It doesn't help that inside the house, Dave and Ashley are in the middle of a fight. Dave thinks Emmett needs to 'man up' and it causes Ashley to snap. She lashes out at his mediocre, pedestrian book and leaves him stunned. Meanwhile, Freddy shows up to see Brenda and wants her to change his hair. He no longer wants to be seen, so Brenda encourages him to come back after 5. He doesn't, instead cutting his own hair back home, before setting up a whole bunch of jugs, ready to hit the town. It's Gudsen who heads out first though, meeting a woman at the store who winds up flirting with him. He looks like he's about to set fire to the chips again but this time things are different. Gudsen still has the desire to burn so he introduces this woman to the world of 'streaking'. He ties her down, drops oil on her stomach and sets fire to it. He promises this won't leave any scars, and after putting it out, wants him to burn her again. He nods, and the episode ends. The Episode Review Although Smoke's latest episode is the slowest and doesn't have much in the way of plot development, what it does showcase is rather important. Not only are we seeing more of Michelle's ingenuity and her ability to dive head-first into this case, but also the extent of Dave Gudsen's mental issues. Whether his sociopathic tendencies stem from his mother leaving and snapping something deep inside him, or if this occurred later on through the pressures of life, it's clear that he's wound tighter than a two dollar watch. We know that he's going to snap at some point, but so too is Freddy it seems. With all those jugs in his closet, wrapped in black bags no less, it'll be interesting to see who snaps first. Either way, the second half of this series looks like it's going to pick up in a big way. Previous Episode Next Episode Expect A Full Season Write-Up When This Season Concludes!
The Sun
10-07-2025
- Business
- The Sun
Incredible plans to TUNNEL underneath UK city centre for massive train network are unveiled
BOLD new plans to tunnel beneath a major UK city for a massive underground train and tram network have been officially unveiled. The dramatic move aims to transform how people travel in and out of the busy urban centre and tackle future congestion. 3 3 The ambitious project, based in Manchester and led by Greater Manchester Mayor Andy Burnham, would see trains and trams running below ground for the first time in the city's history, aiming to ease congestion and support future economic growth. Speaking at the launch of Greater Manchester's new 10-year strategy, Mr Burnham said early design work would begin immediately, with Transport for Greater Manchester (TfGM) tasked with drawing up initial concepts. The network is expected to start with a new underground station at Manchester Piccadilly and could eventually stretch east-west and north-south across the region. Mr Burnham said: 'We are going underground. "We are building the Bee Network on the surface. "But if we achieve our economic ambitions, we'll struggle to cope with just that. "I'm going to ask TfGM to explore underground service options. "We will work with the government to explore funding avenues.' If delivered, the scheme would represent one of the most significant transport overhauls in Manchester's history. It would add a subterranean layer to the expanding Bee Network and is designed to alleviate congestion as the city's population and economy continue to grow. 'We will need infrastructure on a bigger scale to cope,' he said, speaking to the Local Democracy Reporting Service. 'It's not a throwaway line. I am deadly serious." Mr Burnham said he wants TfGM to begin drawing up the first concept for an underground network in Manchester and plans to start early talks with the government about how it could be funded. In the 1970s, plans for the 'Picc-Vic' tunnel linking Piccadilly and Victoria stations were drawn up but later scrapped due to cost. Mr Burnham noted that the idea isn't entirely new, pointing to previous discussions and plans for underground transport. He explained that major developments around Piccadilly, including the digital campus, Sister, and Mayfield, would need a large-scale, international-standard transport system. He added that an underground station at Piccadilly could serve as the starting point for a wider network running both east-west and north-south across the city. While there is no set date for construction to begin, the mayor said he wants a 'detailed' plan, with clear costs, to be developed by 2030. The vision supports Greater Manchester's goal of creating a world-class integrated transport system, capable of handling future demand and connecting key areas across the region. Mr Burnham has pledged to work closely with Whitehall to explore funding routes, while TfGM will now begin work on early concepts and feasibility studies. The announcement has sparked excitement among transport campaigners and city planners, many of whom have long argued Manchester needs bold solutions to match its growth. 3
