Podcasts about xr2

El Ford Fiesta nació en 1976. Y 12 millones de unidades vendidas más tarde han muerto antes de lo esperado, no ha llegado ni siquiera al 2024, ha sido en 2023… Vale la pena hacer un repaso a la historia de este modelo y a los motivos de su prematuro, y para muchos indeseado, fallecimiento. Y es que el Fiesta a lo largo de 7 generaciones ha sido un coche, para muchos, de “toda la vida”. Un coche que, en Europa y sobre todo en España, revolucionó su segmento, un coche con unas versiones básicas muy interesantes y unos modelos deportivos de un atractivo excepcional… Yo he tenido uno de cada. Pero ha sido una muerte a tres manos: La agenda 2030, los SUV y los híbridos han acabado con nuestro querido Ford Fiesta. ¿Una muestra de lo que quieren los consumidores? ¿O una muestra de lo que quieren las marcas? Los “nuevos” utilitarios. Ya desde 1975 las revistas de coches, de las que era lector compulsivo, ya hablaban del Ford “pequeño”, pero no del Fiesta, sino del Bobcat, que era el nombre clave para este coche. Y es que en esos años los Fiat-Seat 127 y los Renault 5 arrasaban en Europa, sobre todo en el sur de Europa. Y Ford quería parte de ese apetitoso bocado. El departamento de marketing de la marca propuso muchos nombres, casi todos cos raíces latinas: Amigo, Bambi, Bebe, Bolero, Bravo, Chico, Fiesta, Forito, Metro, Pony, Sierra y Tempo entre otros. Por votación se eligió el de “Bravo", que luego usaría Fiat, pero ¿sabéis las leyes del jefe? Henry Ford II dijo que Fiesta… y no hubo nada que hablar… para mí, acertó. Coche nuevo, fábrica nueva. Este coche se fabricó en muchos lugares, entre ellos Dagenham, en el Reino Unido y Colonia, en Alemania. Pero para los españoles este coche tuvo algo muy especial: Se construyó una fábrica de nueva planta, muy moderna, en la localidad de Almussafes, provincia de Valencia. Primera generación (1976-1983). En 1976 los Fiat-Seat 127 y sobre todos los R5 ofrecían y buen nivel de acabado… pero el Fiesta, desde sus comienzos, estaba a otro nivel. Por prestaciones no estaba al nivel del 127, por confort quizás se colocaba algo por detrás del R5, pero por calidad de terminación, acabado y equipamiento, les superaba… y, por cierto, en lo que respecta a habitabilidad. Hay que nombrar dos referentes del momento, el Ford Fiesta 1.300 Super Sport, de anchísimas ruedas y sobre todo el XR2 como motor 1.6 y 84 CV de potencia para apenas 800 kg. Segunda generación (1983-1989). En realidad, fue una modernización del primer Fiesta a base de redondear sobre todo la parte delantera. Honestamente, no me pareció un “restyling” muy logrado. En esta generación hay dos hitos, el cambio de variación continua CTX que pude probar en el Reino Unido y el nuevo XR2 con motor ya de 96 CV. Tercera generación (1989-1995). Algunos, por ejemplo “Wikipedia” llaman a esta generación la segunda generación FASE 1. Bueno, yo prefiero la tercera. Tuve un XR2 de inyección que ya llegaba a los 110 CV, pero un coche con un defecto, común en esos tiempos: Podías elegir o servodirección o A/A, ambas cosas no. Y la dirección mecánica era muy dura… ¡y con 4 vueltas de volante! Aparece la versión RS Turbo de 133 CV… un coche que levantó polémicas en su momento. Cuarta generación (1995-2002). Para mí, de lejos, el Fiesta más feo que haya existido. O el menos bonito. Lo más importante de esta generación es la aparición de nuevos y buenos motores, los Zetec de gasolina de 16v, en cilindrada de 1.2, 75 CV, 1.4 y 90 CV. Sin olvidar los turbodiésel con hasta 75 CV. Quinta generación (2002-2008). Muchos llaman a los Ford Fiesta fabricados a partir de 2002 tercera generación, por ejemplo Wikipedia. Y tiene sentido porque lo cierto es que hasta 2002 las sucesivas evoluciones del Fiesta eran estéticas y de mecánica, pero el bastidor evolucionó poco. Pero en esta sí que evolucionó y el coche creció.Y además aparece otra denominación mítica: El Fiesta ST. Sexta generación (2008-2017). Lo más interesante de este “Forfi” era que compartía plataforma con el Mazda 2… eran los momentos dulces de la relación de ambas marcas. El coche crece en tamaño, en oferta, en mercados… pero sin ser ni mucho menos feo, no dejada de ser una especie de Focus “pequeñito” que no a todo el mundo gustaba. Séptima generación (2017-2023). Siempre se dice que los coches mueren cuando son mejores. Y esto en el caso del Ford Fiesta se cumple a rajatabla. El último Fiesta es bonito, bien acabado, con buenas motorizaciones. Sí, sé lo que estás pensando, en el motor tricilíndrico de 1.0 litros Ecobost con Turbo y 125 CV. ¿Por qué se muere el Ford Fiesta? Hay teorías para todo. Ya hemos hablado de los SUV, los eléctricos e híbridos, la agenda 2030… no hemos hablado del éxito del Puma, un nombre rescatado de un deportivo para aplicarlo a un SUV… así son los tiempos que vivimos.

Ya hicimos un vídeo de los deportivos más difíciles de conducir… pero este video es muy diferente, porque añade un matiz im-por-tan-te: Son coches que he probado en su momento y que, casi, casi, me asustaron. Hablaremos de técnica pero sobre todo de sensaciones y de conducción… será como una prueba… y de cada coche, os contaré una anécdota. No es casual que todos estos coches sean de finales de los 80… salvo uno, que es anterior, pero que probé en los 80. Ni es casual que 4 de los 5 sean turbo… y el que no lo es, sea un 16V… Ni es casual que en esta lista tengamos dos Ford. Vamos a explicar las tres cosas. Los 80 fueron años muy locos en el mundo del motor, como contamos en el vídeo “Los años 80, ¿la mejor época del mundo del motor?” Lógico porque la llegada del turbo consiguió, entre otras cosas, “democratizar” las prestaciones… ya no hacía falta comprar coches superdeportivos y muy caros para acceder a prestaciones muy altas… y la llegada del turbo de alguna manera promovió o aceleró el empleo de las 4 válvulas por cilindro. Y también hay explicación para que tengamos dos Ford en esta lista. Más que explicación, explicaciones en plural, porque Ford hacía tiempo que había apostado por la competición, pero en estos años quiso sacar partido comercial a esta apuesta ofreciendo modelos deportivos. Pero en estos años, seamos sinceros, Ford no tenía mucha “mano” para poner a punto bastidores y suspensiones. Y otra sorpresa: Cosworth tiene mucho que ver con tres de estos cinco coches. 1. Porsche 911-930 Turbo 3.3 (1977) Es el único repetido en esta lista frente al vídeo de “Los coches deportivos más peligrosos y difíciles de conducir”… lo probé en 1982 y yo, que era un enamorado de este coche, me llevé un verdadero chasco. Además, el coche que pude ensayar era la segunda versión, con motor 3.3 litros y 300 CV. También llevaba mejores frenos y un alerón aún más grande que el anterior: De la “cola de ballena” se pasó a la “bandeja de té”. 2. Ford Sierra Cosworth (1986) ¡Un peligro! Me refiero al primero, el más bonito y que es un coche que me encanta. Pero solo apto para expertos… En esta primera versión lo que hizo Ford fue meter un dos litros que gracias a Cosworth ofrecía 204 CV para un peso de 1,2 toneladas. Le puso unos frenos que no iban mal, un cambio algo lento, pero que cumplía y en cuanto a las suspensiones hizo lo que parecía lógico: Poner muelles algo más duros, amortiguadores más firmes y rebajar la altura. 3. Opel Kadett GSi 16V (1987) Recuerdo perfectamente cuando lo probé. Era un viernes y tenía el equipaje listo para salir a cubrir una carrera en Calafat cuando me llamaron de Opel y me dijeron: “Tenemos en Kadett 16V, ¿te lo quieres llevar para probarlo?” Imagino que os imagináis mi respuesta “¡Claro!” Menos de media hora después estaba al volante del que era, probablemente, el primer Kadett GSi que llegó a España. El Kadett de solo 8 válvulas ya era potente, muy potente. En esos años los coches de 16v, como el Golf, adolecían de una enfermiza falta de bajos. Pero el Kadett 16v fue el primer 16 válvulas con carácter, con altos, bajos, medios, de todo y capaz de plantar cara a cualquier turbo que se le pusiese por delante. 4. Renault 21 Turbo Quadra (1987) ¿Te sorprende? A lo mejor sí, pero después de hablar de un coche de motor trasero y 300 CV y de otro de tracción delantera y 160 CV, uno de tracción total con 175 CV y 1.300 kg puede parecer, sobre el papel, una “madre” como se dice en el argot… pues ya te digo yo que no. ¿Por qué era difícil este coche? Porque su motor tenía un tiempo de respuesta exagerado, con una entrada de potencia muy brusca, y la tracción total te daba mucha confianza… 5. Ford Fiesta RS Turbo (1990) Decíamos que el Sierra Cosworth era y es un peligro… ¡pero este Fiesta lo es tanto o más! Os lo juro. Pero esto no lo digo yo, fue un clamor de la prensa especializada en su momento: Las prestaciones de este motor superaban de largo las posibilidades del chasis. Y no solo lo dijo la prensa, también lo dijeron las compañías de seguros, que pusieron pegas a estos coches… sobre todo si el conductor era joven. El Fiesta de la segunda serie, ni en sus versiones deportivas, era un dechado de estabilidad y buen comportamiento. Pero se defendía con motores de poco más de 100 CV como los del XR2. Pero si le metías un turbo con “mal yogurt” y 133 CV… la cosa cambiaba. Conclusión. Hay otros muchos coches que cuando probé por primera vez me sorprendieron, me impresionaron o, por el contrario, me decepcionaron… si os gusta este formato que podíamos denominar de “prueba temática” pues repetiremos… Coche del día. Voy a elegir un coche que iba a poner en esta lista pero que lo he sacado porque cuando lo probé de verdad por primera vez, realmente era ya un clásico: El R8 TS de la Copa.

Slaine from 2000AD. Sherlock Holmes. Dr Who. Primeval. Stargate. Return of the Jedi. Ghost-writing for genuine legends of the rap and hip-hop scene.... Our guest today is probably the most prolific and best-selling author you've never heard of! And he also writes for games, including the major Xbox/Playstation hit, Battlefield 3! Not only that, he used to write the odd story for classic "top-shelf" magazines like Fiesta and Escort, and no, those were NOT about 80's motor cars, they were FAR sexier than an RS2000 or XR2... Join us today, as we chat with Steven Savile!

Este vídeo era imprescindible tras la primera parte que estrenamos hace unos días. Y es que destacar sólo 10 deportivos "Made in Spain" era muy injusto, porque dejaba fuera a coches muy notables. Hemos hecho justicia y os traemos otros 10 deportivos españoles. Decidnos ahora si están todos… Hoy hay pocos preámbulos ni reflexiones. Solo dos y rápidas: La primera, como os dije este no es sólo un video para los españoles porque muchos de estos coches se vieron en otros muchos mercados. La segunda, os aconsejo ver el primer video. Si nos hemos dejado alguno, que seguro que sí, para eso están los comentarios. Pero recordad una condición que he impuesto: No son deportivos vendidos en España, sino fabricados en España. Dodge Boulevard (1970). El Muscle Car español. Confieso que no soy un fanático de Pedro Serra. Un fanático no, pero me gusta. Hizo coches con mucho estilo y eso es lo que me gusta de este Boulevard, que se aleja mucho de otros diseños más refinados y la verdad es que tiene pinta de verdadero Muscle Car americano. Sólo se hicieron 18, uno de ellos versión MM30, que significa literalmente “motor mejorado 30 CV”. O sea, de 165 a 195 CV… en esa época eran muchos caballos. Seat 128 Sport (1976). Competencia entre hermanos. Curioso que Seat fabricase al mismo tiempo los Seat 1200 y 1430 Sport y este 128, que era realmente un Fiat. Los Sport eran más caros, incluso muy caros, respecto al 128, pero aportaban supuestamente mejor comportamiento deportivo y mayor exclusividad. Simca 1.000 Rallye (1976). No era como el francés… Hubo tres versiones del Simca Rallye en Francia. El Rallye 3, homologado para correr en Grupo 1, coches de serie, daba ya unos respetables 103 CV. Pero como en el caso del Mini Cooper, el Simca Rallye llego a España, pero bastante descafeinado. Simca 1200 Ti (1976). 85 CV de buena raza. Existía una Simca 1200 Special con ciertos aires deportivos, con motor de 1.294 cm3 que anunciaba unos buenos 75 CV… buenos para la época y para el peso del coche, unos 950 kg. Pero el Ti mejoraba en mucho al Special, porque su motor subía a 1.442 cm3 y la potencia a 85 CV, un 11 por ciento más. Citroën GSA X3 (1979). Deportivo… para ser un GSA. EL bastidor y los frenos de los GS y GSA siempre estuvieron muy por encima de sus prestaciones. Y los "citroenistas" de la época, entre los que me incluyo, soñamos con un GS que corriese de verdad. Tanto es así que en el vídeo de coches que no existieron, pero debieron existir, nos inventamos un GSA Turbo o 16V… pero lo más potente, de serie, que hubo fue este X3 de 1.299 cm3 y 65 CV, por eso está aquí. Ford Fiesta Súper Sport (1980). El XR2 de los pobres. No quiero se malo, pero el coche que molaba de verdad era el XR2, que no he incluido en esta lista porque no se fabricó en España, pero este 1300 SS o Súper Sport sí. Pero este Ford, precioso, todo hay que decirlo, era más marketing que otra cosa. Ford estaba envidiosa, por decirlo llanamente, del éxito de Renault con su Copa y quiso hacer algo parecido, pero no lo era. Seat Fura Crono (1982). ¡Por fin un 127-1430! ¡Por fin un 127 con motor 1430! Porque tanto el 1430 Sport como el 128 habían llevado este motor. Pero eran más caros y pesados. Estéticamente los Fura eran un poco "sosetes", no vamos a negarlo, pero el Crono era otra cosa, sobre todo en los colores más habituales que eran el rojo, negro y, menos habitual, gris metalizado. En ambos casos, la multitud de detalles en negro, como los bajos de la carrocería, el frontal y la trasera, destacaban su línea. Seat Ronda Crono 2000 (1984-1985). Con toques de Porsche Hubo un Seat Ritmo Crono, pero el Ronda es un coche genuinamente español, el artífice de la separación real de Fiat y Seat. Recordemos el Ronda que aún conserva la marca en que se ven, pintadas de amarillo, las zonas que diferenciaban al Ronda y al Ritmo. Además, la historia de este 2000 es divertida: Seat dejaba de fabricar el Seat 131 y aún tenía motores de dos litros…. Y decidió ponérselo al Ronda. Citroën Visa GTi 115 CV (1986). Para mi, mejor que el Peugeot El Citroën VISA nace en 1978 como coche utilitario y con el modesto motor del 2CV. Quien nos iba a decir que 8 años después sería un coche deportivo, muy deportivo… y "Made in Spain". La fórmula fue sencilla: Meter todo el motor y tren delantero del Peugeot 205 en un VISA. Dicho y hecho, de ahí la gran diferencia entre la vía delantera y la trasera… Peugeot 205 Rallye (1988). De patito feo a cisne. Sí, el 205 GTi, sobre todo el 1.9 de 130 CV era el sueño de muchos. Y parecía que este Rallye era la alternativa para los que no podían llegar al GTi. Pero no, no era así, porque este coche nació para la competición, porque en la categoría de hasta 1.300 cm era y sigue siendo hoy día, un coche muy competitivo, gracias a sus buenos 103 CV, reducido peso, buenos frenos y excelente estabilidad.

Inspirada por conflitos étnicos ao redor do mundo, a crise imigratória nos Estados Unidos, consumismo e a violência, M.I.A. fez do segundo álbum de estúdio da carreira, "Kala" (2007), sua obra mais completa. Fonte de inspiração para nomes como Rihanna, Madonna e Beyoncé, o trabalho que revelou músicas como "Paper Planes", "Jimmy", "Boyz" e "XR2" é o tema da discussão entre Cleber Facchi (@cleberfacchi) e Duda Dello Russo (@dudadellorusso) em mais uma edição do Clássicos VFSM. ● Apoie a gente em padrim.com.br/podcastvfsm ● Siga o @podcastvfsm em todas as redes sociais.

Much of the American story is built on two steel rails. Today, many — perhaps most — of the things you own have been carried by trains. In this episode, we explore how railways are embracing artificial intelligence and edge technology to reduce downtime and maximize efficiency. And how one tech company’s ingenious rail car inspection portals are keeping railways competitive.Technology Powers X is an original podcast from Dell Technologies. For more about data protection solutions and the newest integrated appliances, please visit DellTechnologies.com/TechnologyPowersX.

Coffee and VR Scary VR for HALLOWEEN | VR Switch | BIG VR Sale Fall 2020 On this spooky episode of COFFEE & VR, we discuss a new XR2 headset, some awesome games for Halloween, and everything we've been playing. Steam VR Sale https://store.steampowered.com/search/?tags=21978&specials=1 Dash Dash World https://dashdashracing.com/ Mamut Accessories https://www.mamutvr.com/?ref=9mnnkhwhnwzt VR Cover https://vrcover.com/?itm=492 Oculus Quest 2 - 64gb https://amzn.to/2HbVFci Oculus Quest 2 - 256gb https://amzn.to/3j5EeYm Elite Strap https://amzn.to/2H9Mc5i Elite Strap with Battery and Case https://amzn.to/3lRBcIQ Deluxe Audio Strap https://amzn.to/3j7Vig2

In this episode we talk about the Oculus Quest V14 update that enables shared experience Audio input from the Oculus Quest. Qualcomm releases several reference designs for the XR2 chip that is purpose-built for AR/VR/MR HMDs. And we finish the podcast by discussing the potential adoption of WiGig (802.11ay) in future iPhone or other ‘portable' devices by Apple. This and more in your daily dose of VR News!

Ian & Tatjana discuss FB acquiring the Asgard's Wrath's devs, the VR Power Quest mod, Qualcomm's XR2 reference design, Virtual Desktop wireless PC VR streaming, and ponder whether Xbox not getting VR is a mistake. We apologize for the audio stutter.

Raders by Nelson Stanley   They called themselves the Raders, and if you didn’t know, you’d swear that they were waiting for something: a bunch of boyed-up cookers, second-string hot hatches and shopping trollies adorned with bazzing body-kits parked down at the overcliff again, throttles blipping in time to the breakbeats. Throaty roar from aftermarket back-boxes you could shove your fist up, throb of the bass counter-pointed by an occasional crack as a cheap six-by-nine gave up the ghost. Occasionally a sub overheated, leaving nothing but ear-splitting midrange and treble howling into the gale blowing rain off the sea. Mya had pushed half a pill into Maggie’s hand when the red XR2 picked her up outside the all-night Turkish takeaway, and Maggie regretted dropping it already, though at first she’d thought the high percentage of whizz in it might lend her enough chemical bravery to finally say what she wanted. Now her eyes rolled in her head and the rush made it difficult to speak. Sparks came off the edges of the headlights splitting the mizzle outside. Her nervous system uncoiled and re-knitted itself, reducing her to a warm soup through which the uppers fizzed and popped.     [Full story after the cut.] Hello! Welcome to GlitterShip episode 72 for June 10, 2019. This is your host, Keffy, and I’m super excited to be sharing this story with you. Today we have a GlitterShip original, which starts off a new issue that you can pick up at GlitterShip.com/buy, on Gumroad at gum.co/gship08, or on Amazon, Nook, Kobo, and other ebook retailers. If you’ve been waiting to pick up your copy of the Tiptree Award Honor Listed book, GlitterShip Year Two, there’s a great deal going on for Pride over at StoryBundle. GlitterShip Year Two is part of a Pride month LGBTQ fantasy fiction bundle. StoryBundle is a pay-what-you-want bundle site. For $5 or more, you can get four great books, and for $15 or more, you’ll get an additional five books, including GlitterShip Year Two, and a story game. That comes to as little as $1.50 per book or game. The StoryBundle also offers an option to give 10% of your purchase amount to charity. The charity for this bundle is Rainbow Railroad, a charity that helps queer folks get to a safe place if their country is no longer safe for them. http://www.storybundle.com/pride Our story today is “Raders” by Nelson Stanley. Before we get to that, though, here is our poem, “Vampiric Tendencies in the Year 4500” by Renee Christopher. Renee Christopher is an SFF writer and poet currently making it through her last Iowa winter. Noble / Gas has nominated her poetry for a Pushcart, and her first short story can be found in Fireside Fiction. Follow her on Twitter @reneesunok or on Mastodon @sunok@wandering.shop   Vampiric Tendencies in the Year 4500 By Renee Christopher   Moon-sewn mothgirls clot          near light, their search for glow similar to mine. The door left          ajar          allowed us both alternate methods for creation creatures merged          with cosmic teeth. Stars managed to adapt          find those who, thick as molasses, gleamed upon the trellis          of a new future. But what I look for flutters past a stand of deer          —bright and wingless, with champagne fingers and summer tongues. At least, the searing          reminds me of a time when the sun burned hot and fast.          Now the blood  I need drips neon from above, filters through          decadent soil in a system unknown. In this quest for light          source, I am not alone.   Nelson Stanley works in an academic library in the UK. His stories have been published recently in places like The Dark Magazine, the Lethe Press anthology THCock, Black Dandy, The Gallery of Curiosities, The Sockdolager, and Tough Crime. One of his stories was included in the British Fantasy Award-winning anthology Extended Play.   Raders by Nelson Stanley   They called themselves the Raders, and if you didn’t know, you’d swear that they were waiting for something: a bunch of boyed-up cookers, second-string hot hatches and shopping trollies adorned with bazzing body-kits parked down at the overcliff again, throttles blipping in time to the breakbeats. Throaty roar from aftermarket back-boxes you could shove your fist up, throb of the bass counter-pointed by an occasional crack as a cheap six-by-nine gave up the ghost. Occasionally a sub overheated, leaving nothing but ear-splitting midrange and treble howling into the gale blowing rain off the sea. Mya had pushed half a pill into Maggie’s hand when the red XR2 picked her up outside the all-night Turkish takeaway, and Maggie regretted dropping it already, though at first she’d thought the high percentage of whizz in it might lend her enough chemical bravery to finally say what she wanted. Now her eyes rolled in her head and the rush made it difficult to speak. Sparks came off the edges of the headlights splitting the mizzle outside. Her nervous system uncoiled and re-knitted itself, reducing her to a warm soup through which the uppers fizzed and popped. Waves thrashed at the rocks below the edge of the cliff. An occasional dark shape—a seagull, perhaps, blown off-course and away from the bins—fluttered into the edges of the headlights’ glare and then reeled away into the greater darkness. Hydro and tobacco exhaust vented through half-opened drivers’ windows and flavored the edges of the sooty exhaust smoke from a dozen engines running too rich. One or other spun dustbin-lid size alloys on the wet, loose tarmac with an angry howl, holding it on the handbrake, then—just when you might think that a clutch was about to melt—drop it hard so that fat low-profiles tramped up into the suspension turrets as the tires found purchase, slewing away to nail it down the narrow cliff road, returning from its circuit a few minutes later to rejoin the loose congregation in the car park. “See. What I mean is, we could be like... See? We don’t have to like... What I mean...” Maggie trailed off, frustrated not so much, perhaps, by her inability to articulate her emotions than by the inefficiency of talking as a medium for expression itself. Why couldn’t she just touch Mya, and have her know exactly what she meant? How she felt? She chewed savagely upon the inside of her bottom lip and fervently wished she’d brought some chewing gum, breath fast through her nose. She started to roll a ciggie, but her hands were shaking and tobacco and papers seemed alive in her hands. In the driver’s seat, Mya was doing her lippy in the rear-view, an action made more difficult by the way she was surfing the breakbeats pulsing from the stereo, pausing occasionally to puff on the spliff hanging out of the other side of her mouth. With a sigh that seemed practiced she twisted her lippy shut and dropped it amongst the scree of empty Embassy No.1 packets, roached Rizla cartons, baggies and half-crushed tins of cheap cider littering the dashboard. “Look,” she said, placing both hands on the steering wheel, as if what she had to say required anchoring herself more firmly to the car, “With you now it’s all ‘What I want’ and ‘What I think is’ and it just... I knew it’d get like this. Knew it. What you don’ get is, I don’t care. It’s over, girl. Let go.” Chemicals rushed into Maggie’s head like someone filling up a bath. She was frantically rubbing a rolling paper flat between her thumbs, gaze pinned to the wrinkled rectangle as if somewhere upon it was written a way out of this, a way to get Mya back. “I suppose I do need you,” Mya went on, leaning back in the Recaro and idly picking at a blim-hole in the upholstery while puffing luxuriantly on her smoke. “But not the way you need me. I can’t be the thing you want, y’know? It was fun, while it lasted, but is what it is, girl.” She glanced over at Maggie. “But you can still help, if you like.” Maggie—lorn and reeling from the chemicals thudding through her central cortex—tried to answer, but all that came out was a small hiccuping yelp. She nodded frantically. “Jesus fuck,” Mya said, and shoved the j toward her passenger. “D’you wan’ some of that?” she said, and it seemed to Maggie that there was love in the gesture, in Mya’s voice, real love, an outpouring of care and concern, and even if it wasn’t what Maggie wanted—that surging roil in her groin, the brimming of her heart that accompanied her memories of the two of them twined together in Mya’s bed, under the Congo Natty poster, the way Mya held her hand in public once or twice, walking back through the rain and the ghost-haunted dawn, hoodies pulled up against the wind—then, still, it unlocked such a river of sweet-flowing sadness inside Maggie that she thought she might melt, right there in the XR2, melt outward in a great silent wave of warmth that blossomed from some secret core inside her body and pulsed through her, turning her flesh to something at once liquid and as evanescent as smoke. “Jesus fuck,” Mya said again, peering into Maggie’s face. “If you vom all on my Recaros I swear down I will kick you out right here, get me?”, but Maggie knew she wouldn’t, knew she wouldn’t do that, and she was right.   Outside, other cars were gathering, as if drawn by the bass or the lights, as if boyed-up hatches were sad deep-sea creatures, huddling together for mutual warmth around some abyssal vent. Inside, in the thick dusty warmth blowing out of the demister, Maggie shucked off her hoodie and T-shirt, down to her bra, worming her shoulder blades into the fabric of the passenger seat. Though she rolled her eyes at this, Mya was at least calmer now that Maggie had smoked herself into a place of happy burbling. She cranked down the window as a battered G1 CRX pulled up, fishtank lights glowing underneath the sills and an acre of filler across its back three-quarter panel as if it suffered the ravages of some terrible disease. The relentless, tinny grinding of mid-period Sick of it All pounding from the CRX met the XR2’s sweetly dubbing Jungle, twisted in the rain into a horrifying new hybrid. The boy in the CRX, baseball cap pulled down low, leaned out the window and put his hand out for a fistbump, got left hanging, pulled it in reluctantly and settled further down into his Parka. “It’s nearly time,” Mya said to him. He sniffed. “Aye.” “You gonna lead?” He shrugged, somewhat restrained by his seatbelt. “Thought you were gonna. As it’s, like, your party n’that.” All around the car-park hatches were circling now, splashing through the puddles: a well-loved 205 GTI with engine mounts so shot that it kangaroo-ed on the clutch, pitching the front-end like an obsequious underling kowtowing to its superior so that the add-on plastic chin spoiler spat a spray of gravel in front of it. A cooking Sierra twin-cam done out to look like a Cossie decided to show the front-drive pretenders what they were missing out on, and started power-oversteering around the edge of the circling hatches, back end slewing dangerously close before a hefty stomp on the throttle and an armful opposite-lock sent it whirling away. Maggie, eyes rolling saucer in her head, could only see trails of light, fireworks steaming in the dark, light spidering out of itself to scrawl the night, after-images licking at the edges of the rain. “Where we going?” she said, struggling upright in the seat, pulse thrumming up through her, a solid lump in her throat. “We’re gonna take a trip to Faerieland,” Mya said as she took the XR2 out of the carpark, the Raders peeling off after her, each trailing a respectable distance behind the other, jostling for position down the narrow slip road. “The land of the dead, the shining place on the hill where the Good Stuff comes from, where they take you when it’s all over.” Maggie watched the empty wet streets go past, everything wet and filthy, the streetlamps chrysanthemum bursts of light. The Raders peeled off and followed one-by-one in a continuous rising and falling of fat aftermarket tailpipes and tinny drum’n’bass, punctuated occasionally by the telltale clunk-woosh of a dump valve some joker had bolted on to a naturally-aspirated Golf. They snaked down the road leading from the overcliff, overly-fat radials whispering across the wet tarmac then ka-thumping awkwardly as they bottomed out on the potholes because they’d lowered their suspension by cutting their coil springs with an angle grinder. “Think on,” said Mya, checking her reflection in the rear-view, “Think, Maggie. A place—well, not quite a place—somewhere they talk in the high-pitched whistle of bats, words you hear not with your ears but something lodged in the back of your brain. They got stuff there, one tiny hit’ll burn through your soul, let you touch the face of God and strip away your skin, make you forget all the shit life drops in your lap.” Beyond the glass, the neon frontage on dingy shops and cheap bars spread and blurred in firework streaks. Maggie convulsed in her seatbelt, clawing at the tensioner as it ratcheted too-tightly around her stomach. The XR2 lurched over a speed-bump outside Syndicate—the townie girls lined up on the wet pavement clutching their purses, tugging ineffectually at two inches’ of skirt as the rain blew in sideways from the seafront, the young boys with too much hair product reeking of cheap body-spray and grabbing their crotches as they shotgunned cans of lager—and for a second Maggie thought she might actually be sick, but luckily it passed. “A place where you never have to think,” said Mya, idly flicking ash off the end of her j as she took to the wrong side of the road to pass a dawdling hatchback—big swoosh of locked brakes against wet tarmac, cacophony of horns blaring into the night—“Where you never get hungry, or sad, or old.” Maggie opened her mouth to speak, but Mya chose that moment to take the inside, getting both nearside wheels up on the curb as she passed a recovery lorry turning on to the main road, orange spinning light sending weird tiger stripes strobing across the interior of the XR2. As Mya straightened up, fighting the bit of aquaplane as she brought it level, she continued: “There was this girl, see. She was just like any other. Stupid but not free. She met another girl, and fell in love. The sex was fucking epic—” and at this Maggie gave a low moan—“for starters, but wasn’t just meat-meet, wasn’t just something in the cunt or the brain or the blood. This other girl showed the first one things she’d never seen. A new way of looking at the world—” Traffic lights bloomed like fireworks through the rain-swept windscreen as Mya, faced with the inconvenience of a stop signal, took a shortcut through the carpark of a pub, narrowly missing someone’s Transit pulling out of a space then nipping back into the snarl of traffic, agonised howls of horns behind them like the baying of something monstrous. “A new pair of eyes.” Maggie nodded, chewing on her bottom lip. “The world seemed changed,” Mya went on. “Everything was magic.” The speed of their passage smeared the neon of a kebab shop across the night, and Maggie, her hand up to wave away a stray strand of hair that she swore was scuttling across her face like a spider, was left staring, open-mouthed, soul tightening in her throat as it sought to escape the skin, astonished at the colored lights crawling and twisting across her skin. “She showed her things she never dreamed existed, never dreamed could exist. Then, her lover told this girl that she couldn’t have her, that it wasn’t to be. Where her lover came from, she said, that place was different to ours, and she had to go back there. She came from far away, from a place out beyond the days of working shit jobs for the man and burning up your nights in Rizlas and watching them drift,” Mya said, exhaling a long cloud of dope smoke. As it hit the windscreen and flattened out Maggie watched the coils interpolate and shiver in a slow-motion swirl, and the spirals twisted and convulsed and in the whirl there were bodies churning, moving against each other in a liquid tumble, figures clotted together and sliding through each other and as she watched featureless heads opened empty mouths in silent screams of ecstasy and lust— Taking another big roundabout, Mya let the XR2 go sideways for shits and giggles, whoosh of tires on wet asphalt, and the stately procession of the Raders followed, each making the same playful half-wobble in the Ford’s wake, then out on the ring-road past industrial estates lit up garishly by high-powered halogens. Maggie dry-swallowed the lump in her throat, convulsed slightly, gasped out: “I think I’m gonna need another pill, if we’re going to a rave.” Mya ignored her. “This other lover, she told the girl she was in deep, that where she came from they never died, but every so often one of them had to pay a price, tithe to the Man Who Waits, the Man Who Must Be Paid, and that it was her turn to pay.” On the edge of a judder of chemicals as they sped down the pulsing freeways of her blood, Maggie found her voice: “I’d’ve loved to have gone to a rave with you. We never did, did we? There was that big one, down by the river, in the old tire factory? We never made it,” and she trailed off, the memory of that night coming back to hit her: going round someone’s house to score, the crunch of the purple-y crystals in the baggie with the smiley on it. Too greedy to wait, they’d each cut a line that glistened like finely-ground glass on the back of a CD case, huffed it back, shrieking and clapping and giggling at the burn as it dissolved their mucus membranes. They’d staggered out of the dealer’s house arm-in-arm, already giggling, bathed in the streetlamp’s orange glow, hands slipping between hoodies and jeans against the cold. Before they knew it they were fucking each other raw in an alley behind the closed-down Tesco Express, panting against the bins, colors streaming from the edges of their vision as fingers worked in the cold.   Mya’s hand dropped swiftly off the gearstick, squeezed Maggie’s knee. “Nearly there,” she whispered. Maggie was halfway to replying “No, no you fucking weren’t, with the Mollie you took ages to come, I had to go down on you, knees in a puddle, my Diesels got fucking wet through,” when she looked up, and saw. The lights of a deserted superstore glowing through the murk like the warning lights of a ship out at sea. To either side light industrial units glowered through the rain. Something that might’ve been a dog scurried through the puddles collecting on the uneven tarmac, shook itself, then squeezed through the gap in a fence and was gone. The road descended as it cut across a valley. At the top of the valley sides, brooding behind razor wire, huge dark shapes reared against the night sky. The XR2 turned up a driveway you could get an articulated lorry through, between steep banks choked with wet gorse. She pulled up in a huge open space across which the low-profiles bucked and jinked, big wheels nervous over the ruts. Ahead of them, a locked gate, skin of plate iron welded onto a framework of quarter-inch box-section, topped with barbed wire like icing on a birthday cake, stained with something that shone dark in the backwash off the streetlights, something that might’ve been oil. “Mya, babe,” said Maggie, “where the fuck are we?” The rest of the Raders, fallen behind in traffic or cut off from the XR2 by stop lights, began to wheel out of the night on to the forecourt, pulling up in a rough circle. One by one, the engines died, leaving just the reflections of their under-sill lights on the wet tarmac and their headlights cutting through the rain, deepening the shadows on the huge organic-seeming shapes sprawled up the side of the valley. From behind the ringing in her ears, Maggie thought she heard a sound far-off like bells, irregular, plangent, as if they’d taken a wrong turn and were down by the sea and could hear the ships still rolling at anchor in the wind, or when you’d gone to a free party and got mashed and passed out next to a sixteen foot high speaker and woke up with your head ringing and chiming, every sound distant and jangling for the next few days. Mya smiled, leaned back in the driver’s seat, pulled another joint from a crevice on the dash, held it by the twist-shut and shook it to level it out. “This is Faerieland, babe.” Mya, an easy smile playing about her lips, sparked up the j. Maggie, spiking on another wave off her pill, nodded, started frantically chewing out her lip. “Is this like when we—” Mya pressed a finger to her lips and the dry knuckle against Maggie’s mouth smelled of hash and tobacco and the pleasantly artificial tang of raspberry lipstick. “This is like nothing you’ve ever seen,” she said, her voice a whisper. “Now. Why don’t you unclasp your seatbelt?” Maggie fancied she could hear a sort of whistling twitter, a high-pitched oscillation at the edge of hearing, like weaponized tinnitus. The noise got under her skin, wormed its way inside her nerves, crawled along her limbs and set itself just behind her eyes, where it fluttered and beat against the inside of her head like a moth caught in a lampshade. The noise—and whatever she’d taken—made it difficult for her to think straight. She rubbed frantically at her eyes, which seemed to have dried out, and a starshell burst across her vision. “It’s nearly time,” Mya said, taking a deep hit off her j. “They’re here.” When Maggie looked again, things were moving in the darkness at the edge of the headlights, detaching themselves with a slinking motion from the huge shapes up on top of the hill, flowing through the night, drawing near to the edge of the pale circles cast by the Raders. Then—just when she thought she might be able to see what they were—edging back, staying tantalizingly out of reach. They moved on all fours. There was the suggestion of an angular, branched shape, like a four-branch exhaust manifold. A headlight found the edge of one of them for a second, but they were gone so quickly it was impossible to make anything else out other than the suggestion of wet fur, oil-slick pelt, stealthy stalking in the ebon night. “What the fuck we doing, Mya?” Mya shook her off. She held her right hand out of the car, in the rain, as if leaning to get the ticket from a tollbooth, then let it drop. The headlights of the Raders went off in a volley, and the night bloomed with afterimages that writhed violet and ultramarine and a pure, actinic cobalt that burned into Maggie’s retinas as if she’d been staring intently at the base of a MIG welder. Through or under these distortions moved other, darker shapes, suggested by the gaps between the swirling colors on the edges of the twisting light. The chittering increased, like the noise a tweeter made if you wired it in when spliffed up so that it was grounding to earth via the RCA connector. “The only way this girl’s lover could be free, was if someone could take her place.” Mya smiled at Maggie, and there was sadness in it, a sadness that wrenched Maggie so that she jerked and flopped, a spasming convulsion that took all of her strength from her and left her hanging from the seatbelt, spent and useless as a discarded condom hanging from a fence. She tried to raise her head and it sagged useless and boneless on her neck. The darkness rippled and shifted. Something was pulling itself in to existence, shapes coalescing from darkness, shapes Maggie half-recognized, tantalized as they formed then—just on the cusp of understanding—flowed into something else. Waves of prickling heat chased themselves across her, as if she was coming up again, but she was cold, bone cold, breath shallow like one nearing death, alone and lost in some icy hell. Mya slipped her own seatbelt off and stepped outside, into the hush. She opened Maggie’s door and unclipped the belt, and Maggie fell forward, body gone liquid and useless, all her bones melted into a delicious slow ooze. The kiddie from the CRX with the baseball cap appeared at her side, and together he and Mya hauled Maggie out of the seat, trainers skidding on uneven greasy concrete, half-carried and half-dragged her limp scarecrow body between them, laid her gently on the wet rough cement. A shipwreck puddled on the ground, Maggie’s eyes rolled up to the looming outlines against the clouds, and suddenly—with a burst of icy clarity like a siren cutting through your high, telling you it was time to fuck off out of the rave and head for home—she knew where she was. This, this was the place where the dead go. She could smell it, corruption, the sickly smell of ancient automotive glass gone sugary and fragile, of prehistoric hydraulic grease thickening like wax as it seeped back to the tar whence it came, fishy castor-oil tang of gone-off brake fluid and the tired dead-dinosaur ghost-smell of very old petrol, an undercurrent of spoiling, long-banned industrial pollutants, the waxy whiff of chrome-effect plastic as it expired in the wind. Immense effort, all she had, everything given to a squirm of her neck, cheek scraped by wet concrete, and she could see—how could she see? Vision finally adjusted to darkness or some passing benediction of whatever it was Mya had given her?—a makeshift board up on the slope, where someone had painted the word “FAERIELAND” in thick daubs of blue paint. Behind and above it, the huge misshapen outlines against the sky resolved themselves, trompe l’oeil turning the vast near-organic mass to cars piled atop each other in collapsing columns, sprawling aggregation of vehicular death, charnel-house of discarded bangers, piles of engines rearing against the sky like hearts piled up after some battlefield atrocity, ragged rusting wings hanging off like torn pinions of dying angels, Mcpherson strut-assemblies unbolted but left attached so that they dangled from brake lines like new appendages extruded by some automotive nightmare creature testing which shape would be best to crawl out of its pit and stalk across the land, delivering vengeance to those who’d left it here after years of faithful service, those who deserted it to rot in the polluted air and sink slowly into the mire of mud and the butchered remnants of its comrades. The place where the dead go. Faerieland. The land of the dead. And, out from that huge pile of automotive corpses, out from under the shattered sills and pent-in roofs, flowing out like poison from trailing umbilical fuel lines and ventricles of disassembled engines, from the aortas of shattered fuel injection systems, from underneath chassis twisted like paper and from cracked-open gearboxes, out from the jeweled synchromesh and delicately-splined shafts of sundered transaxles and torn-open wiring harnesses spewing copper filaments like multicolored nerves, they came. The real Raders, the OG crew. They poured into the space before the cars like oil hitting water, as their forms adjusted to the limits of their new environment. They made the stuff of the night sing across human neurons and their wake through what we call the real produced a noise like far-off carillons of many bells and a chittering like angry bats. As they came down the hill the air hummed with their presence, spat and crackled and buzzed like high-voltage lines in wet weather, like a pylon singing to itself in the rain. The scrapyard smell receded and the night filled with the evanescent, sickly-sweet smell of violets—flickering across the nose then gone!—then an overpowering burst of eglantine and woodbine, stopping up the throat like death. The steeds they rose had lashed themselves together out of the rotting pile of scrap: corrugated flanks flaking away in oxide scabs, stamping hooves fashioned from brake discs, hydraulic piping and flex from cable looms bulging like sinews at their shoulders, mismatched headlamps for the eyes, exhaust-smoke breath billowing out in clouds from fanged maws made from the teeth of gearwheels and the lobes of camshafts. Their hounds were vast and black and bayed silently at their sides, the thick ruff of their pelt giving way at the shoulder to gleaming metal that heaved and rippled like flesh along the necks that held their great steel-antlered heads aloft. Impossible, implacable, reveling in their alien exhilaration, driven by compulsions innominate and terrible, they poured out into the night, churning up the bank as they came for Maggie. She sat blinking—unbelieving—as her doom streamed down the hill toward her, heart thudding slow in her chest. The Raders watched, for a time. Then, one by one, they fired up their engines and followed Mya’s XR2, as it swept back out onto the rainy streets. END   "Raders" is copyright Nelson Stanley 2019. "Vampiric Tendencies in the Year 4500" is copyright Renee Christopher, 2019. This recording is a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives license which means you can share it with anyone you’d like, but please don’t change or sell it. Our theme is “Aurora Borealis” by Bird Creek, available through the Google Audio Library. You can support GlitterShip by checking out our Patreon at patreon.com/keffy, subscribing to our feed, leaving reviews on iTunes, or buying your own copy of the Summer 2018 issue at www.glittership.com/buy. You can also support us by picking up a free audiobook at  www.audibletrial.com/glittership. Thanks for listening, and we’ll be back soon with a reprint of "Désiré" by Megan Arkenberg.

This week: new leaks give us our best look yet at iPhone XI and XIR. Plus: new US tariffs could skyrocket the prices of your next iPhone and iPad. And a new US Supreme Court ruling could break Apple’s iron control of the app store, making even alternate app stores a real possibility. This episode supported by Our thanks to Linked In for supporting this episode. A business is only as strong as its people, and every hire matters… head to LinkedIn.com/cultcast and get a $50 credit toward your first job post. The NETGEAR Nighthawk WiFi 6 router gives you ultra-fast speeds and wider coverage throughout your home – it’s the biggest revolution in WiFi ever. Check it out today at Netgear.com/wifi6. CultCloth will keep your iPhone X, Apple Watch, Mac and iPad sparkling clean, and for a limited time use code CULTCAST at checkout to score a free CleanCloth with any order at CultCloth.co. On the show this week @erfon / @lkahney   This week's stories New 2019 iPhone leak hints at extra camera lenses (again) Mark Gurman has posted molds of the iPhone XI, XI Max, and XR2, and not everyone is happy with how they look. Apple's Tariff Tradeoff: Raise Phone Prices or Suffer Margin Hit A new round of tariffs proposed by the U.S. on Monday includes mobile phones, meaning the iPhone. If these tariffs take effect, iPhone could be hit with a with a 25% import levy. Supreme Court sides against Apple in big antitrust case A lawsuit targeting Apple and the App Store will be allowed to proceed, the U.S. Supreme Court has decided. The case involves whether or customers technically buy apps from Apple, or whether Apple is a middleman connecting app developers with consumers. The Supreme Court ruled against Apple on Monday by 5 votes to 4. The Apple Inc. v. Robert Pepper case dates back to 2011. The broad argument is that Apple has artificially driven up the price of apps by virtue of its monopolistic control over the App Store. By passing the cost of Apple’s 30% cut onto consumers, iPhone users argue that it is an unfair use of monopoly power. Apple, meanwhile, argued that only app developers — and not users — should be able to bring this lawsuit against Apple.  

The End Of Rock N Roll (Part One) by Simon Saint-Simon [Some intro] 01 V/vm – XR2 mk1 Sale Waterpark 02 Radiohead – Daydreaming 03 Minoru Muraoka – Take Five 04 Alkaline – Gyal Bruk Out 05 Steve Moore – Deep Time 06 Metronomy – Love Letters (Slwx Remix) 07 Todd Terje – Inspector Norse […]

  Meet Jesal and Rochard. We are the Transatlantic Rebels. In Episode 3, our special M.I.A. series consisting of in-depth reviews continues with her sophomore album "Kala" from 2007. We will follow this in the coming weeks with podcasts for "MAYA" and "Matangi" in preparation for her (possibly final) album "AIM" which gets released on 9th September 2016. We talk about how Rochard actually discovered "Kala" through some random guy who wrote a review of it; Maya Arulpragasam and her relationship with the dreaded 'D' word (Part II); Jesal takes a trip down memory lane in an "XR2" and... If you think it's tough now, come to Africa! Jesal is from the UK, and Rochard is from America. We like to talk in depth about albums, films, TV shows and books. Rochard has a background in TV, acting, writing and many other areas of art creation. Jesal has a background in music: DJ, producer, artist, critic and other stuff. Enjoy! And follow us on Twitter - @T_Rebels  

At the start of the second week of this year's Giro d'Italia, we take the long view of cycle sport in Italy with John Foot, professor of modern Italian history at University College London. His book Pedalare! Pedalare! tells the fascinating story of how Italy fell in love with the bicycle and how cycle sport took a central role in national life. Continue reading →

01. M.I.A. – XR2* 02. Bonde Do Role – Bondallica 03. Duke Dumont – When I Hear Music 04. Daft Punk – The Prime Time Of Your Life (Para One Remix) 05. Para One – Midnight Swim (Riton Rerub) 06. Digitalism – The Pulse 07. Daft Punk – Technologic (Digitalism’s Highway To Paris Remix) 08. Bonde Do Role – Marina Do Barrio 09. The Martin Brothers – Stoopit 10. Madox – Le Plaisir Analogique (Facha Remix) 11. Stanton Warriors feat. The Beatnuts – Shake It Up (Hook ‘n Sling Remix) 12. Plump DJs – Listen To The Baddest 13. Hardy Hard & Lady Waks feat. Mr. X – Minimal (The Rogue Element Remix) 14. Koma & Bones – Skyscraper 15. Skream – Deep Concentration (DJ Zinc Remix) 16. Pendulum – Blood Sugar 17. TC feat. Jakes, Dynamite MC & Hollie G – Deep (Roni Size VIP) 18. Sigma – Get Up 19. Drumsound & Bassline Smith – Good Times Roll 20. M.I.A. – Paper Planes *Contains a snippet from the intro of Aaron Lacrate & Scottie B Present History of B-More Club Pt. 1