#sam ward

Cunk on Earth is exactly what I needed this week. Lately I've been feeling overwhelmed by work and I needed something to get my mind off things and help me relax and laugh, and that's exactly what this show did. It's just completely hilarious. The jokes come one after another and they hit way more often than they miss. It manages to throw some biting social commentary here and there in a way that felt perfect, too. And that recurring gag made laugh out loud every single time, it's genius. I spent the episodes waiting for it to come up Also, Diane Morgan is an absolute master at deadpan humor, her delivery is pitch perfect throughout the five episodes. Her Philomena Cunk becomes an iconic character from the very first episode. I would honestly to love to see more Cunk takes on other stuff in the future, so I really hope they make sequels.

And that's all I have for right now, but at least I finally came up with some names.

The holiday party had been planned perfectly. Sam had taken care of every detail, knowing that tonight would be the night. There was no better time to get what one had been desperately wishing for than Christmas Eve, unless it was Christmas itself. So Sam had dropped in on Henry’s life again, organized a holiday party in about a day and a half (he’d been planning ahead for weeks, but it was more impressive when it seemed spontaneous), and orchestrated a guest list that couldn’t go wrong.Or so he’d thought. Yes, all Henry’s close friends were there, and yes, everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves. But there was something in the atmosphere that wasn’t quite right. If anyone else noticed, they gave no sign of it. Then again, no one else cared quite so much about the social tie as he did. There was the faintest tension in the room, the slightest stiffness in certain smiles, the vague sense of relief as the guests began departing.As he pondered it, he perhaps sipped his wine a little too freely. Was it to do with the coy flirtations that had comprised so much of the evening’s undertone? But he couldn’t not invite his sister, and he couldn’t not invite Dr. Howe when he had to invite Charles Sumner. Perhaps he should have rounded up more married couples, but the idea of filling the room with so much possibility had been too tempting. “You’re brooding.”Henry broke in on his thoughts as if on cue. Possibility and temptation. Staring him in the face, one eyebrow raised, waiting for an explanation.“Brooding? How dare you! I would never deign to so pedestrian an act.”“No? I’m sorry to disagree with you dear, but I seem to remember–”“Alright, alright, no need for that. I’m not in the mood for specifics about my personal failings.”“How unlike you.”Sam huffed to signal his exasperation. Tactfully accepting his victory, Henry softened.“What’s wrong, mein Freund?”“You didn’t enjoy the party.” Sam didn’t remember forming the thought, but now he’d said it, he was certain.“Of course I did. Why would I not?”“I don’t know. Was it the candles? Too many, do you think?”“You’re talking nonsense.”“The food then?”“Sam–”“Or were you jealous?”There was a moment’s pause before Henry asked, calmly, “Jealous?”“Yes! Jealous!”“Of what?”“I don’t know! Of Charles? Of Dr. Howe? Of–of–of me?”“Patroclus, what’s this about?”“You were supposed to have fun tonight! I did all this to make you happy–and you hated it! Just because I charmed a few guests, made a few people feel welcome, you–”“Sam, you’re drunk.”“What if I am?! It doesn’t change the fact, just because I was friendly doesn’t mean you have to be such a stubborn ass!”“I’ve been nothing of the sort,” Henry snapped back, annoyance finally breaking through. “You on the other hand–”“Me? Yes, why not. What else have I been?  An ass, a disgrace, a deviant. No, don’t look at me like that, I know what you think of my proclivities.”“As if I ever gave a damn. You’re perfectly welcome to kiss whomever you wa–”Sam’s last ounce of self-control abandoned him. He flung himself on Henry shamelessly, kissing him recklessly, willfully trying to ignore the lack of response. But even drunk as he was, he knew when Henry gently but firmly pushed him away that he had to obey.Still, he seized Henry’s hands, looking desperately into his eyes for any signs of relenting. He found pity there, an aching softness, but no weakening of resolution. Letting go, Sam turned away.“Go on, then. Just go.”“You’re not in a state to take care of yourself.”“I won’t keep you here against your will. I’ve not sunk so low as that just yet.” “I’m not leaving you like this.”Intrigued, Sam half-turned towards him, hating himself for letting his hopes be jerked about so easily. Henry had stepped closer while he wasn’t looking. Now there was hand on the small of his back, and Henry was trying to guide him to the stairs.“You don’t have to–”“I know, Patroclus. I won’t kiss you while you’re this drunk, but I won’t have you pouting all night either. And in the morning, as I said, you’re perfectly welcome to kiss whomever you please.”

Charles Sumner to Sam Ward, being completely relatable but perhaps a bit too optimistic, January 19, 1842

@sward

It had been an unremarkable day. Charles and Henry were in the library, reading and chatting at intervals. The first time Henry’s phone started ringing, he ignored it. He usually did—he hated talking on the phone. But when it started again just a minute later, Henry grudgingly pulled it from his bag. Charles noticed how quickly the annoyance in his features was replaced by confusion as he glanced at the name on the screen. He answered it. “Hello?” Glancing up from his book again, Charles watched the bewilderment on Henry’s face increase as he listened to whoever was on the other end. “You’re not serious—where?—No, I’m in the library—No, just wait where you are, I’ll come meet you—Yeah, yeah I’m leaving now, I’ll be right there.” Henry set the phone down and stared at it, as if he couldn’t believe that conversation had just happened. “Is everything okay?” “Yeah…yeah, it’s just…an unexpected visitor. I’d better go find him before he gets into anything.” As Henry began to pack his things, Charles asked if he was sure he was okay. That stunned look still had not left his face. “I just can’t believe he’s here. I can’t believe he didn’t even tell me he was coming.” “Who?” “Someone I met in Germany. I’ll tell you about it later—or maybe he’ll stay for dinner and you can meet him yourself.” So they said goodbye and Charles went back to work, not bothering himself about Henry’s little mystery. By the time he got back to the apartment he had forgotten it entirely; he was going over the details of the particularly complex trial he’d been reading about in his head again and had no room for anything else. So when he entered the apartment, he was surprised to find a complete stranger in the kitchen, telling Henry a story in German while he stirred something on the stove. He broke off when he saw Charles, and came bounding over to shake his hand. “Guten Abend! So sorry about the short notice, but I was passing through and I just had to see Longo again. I’m Sam Ward, by the way.” His enthusiasm was infectious and Charles found himself grinning as he said it was a pleasure and introduced himself. Then he turned to Henry and raised an eyebrow as he asked, “Longo?” Henry opened his mouth to reply, but Sam, back at the stove again, beat him to it. “Don’t worry, I’ll have a nickname for you too before the night is out.” “And do you have any nicknames?” “Dozens of them,” Sam laughed. “But you’re welcome to give me more if any occur to you.” Having said this, he opened the oven door and peered inside. “Ah, beautiful! It’ll be just another minute.” Charles wanted to ask how exactly the guest came to be cooking dinner in their apartment, but Sam gave off such an aura of confidence and amiability that he seemed to belong there—it felt natural to watch him finish off the sauce and remove some vegetable from a steamer Charles wasn’t sure he’d even known was in the building. As Charles helped Henry set the table, Sam picked up the thread of the story he’d been telling when Charles had come in—in English this time. It was about some girl he’d known in Paris. And for once, on hearing that city mentioned, he did not interrupt. He decided he could wait to ask Sam about his travels in Europe; there was something so spellbinding about the way he spoke that Charles could not bring himself to break the rhythm. The story concluded as Sam finished plating his efforts and laid them on the table with a surprising grace and gentility. But he did not give up the stage just yet. He pulled a large bottle of wine, with an elegant bow around the neck, from a bag on the counter. “A gift,” he announced, with a dramatic flourish of his hand, “for my gracious hosts.” He kept a straight face as he said this, but his eyes sparkled so vibrantly that Charles thought he must be laughing at his own solemnity. As he uncorked the bottle and poured for them, he began to ask Charles questions about himself. A few minutes later, having tasted Sam’s meal, Charles cut off that thread of conversation. “This is amazing. I didn’t know salmon could taste this good.” “It’s the lemon. No one ever gives the lemon enough credit.” “Are you a culinary student?” “Not in a scholarly sense, but it’s a mistake not to be in a practical way.” “Where did you learn to cook?” “Oh,” he waved his hand airily, “here and there.” “You’ll never get it out of him,” Henry observed. “Our Sambo is an enigma. If he doesn’t want to tell you, you’ll never know.” Charles didn’t question the phrase “our Sambo”—like everything else about him, it felt right. “My dear Longo,” he smiled back, “if there’s ever anything you want from me, you need only ask.” “Does that include the recipe for this sauce?” “Alas, that’s not mine to give.” Sam adopted a woebegone expression, but he could not keep his grin at bay for long. “But maybe I will anyway.” “So if not cooking, what do you study?” “Music—art—people. Everything I can. I am a student of life itself.” “He’s working on a mathematical thesis at some university in southern Germany.” Henry clarified. “Oh,” Charles was surprised that someone so lively was getting a degree in math of all things. He was almost disappointed that he wouldn’t be able to ask Sam anything meaningful about his field—he never pretended to know anything about mathematics—but then he felt there would never be a shortage of conversational topics with a man like him. “It’s not really studying,” Sam protested. “It’s just writing down a few thoughts to get a shiny piece of paper my father can show off to his friends.” And then, as if trying to cover up his lapse of optimism and enthusiasm, he rushed to add, “Now the biology degree I got in Paris—that was worth every moment.” And so at last Charles got to ask him about his time there and share some stories of his own. They traded notes on Berlin and London as well, with Henry occasionally pitching in. It kept them occupied for hours until Henry finally declared he had to go to bed. Sam seemed sorry to lose him, watching him wistfully as he disappeared into his room after bringing out spare blankets for Sam to sleep on the couch. But the blankets remained untouched for another hour or two as Charles and Sam continued talking long into the night.

Neither. It's short for Sammich.