Sati coffee

Hi! I saw this in a post on Pinterest and found it really cool, I identify a lot with the idea. Does anyone know if "Dark Hackademia" is a concept that exists and where I can find more about it?
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Am I crazy or do the prices for organic groceries at Whole Foods seem comparable to regular shit at Roblaws!?
I know I need to factor in the exchange rate but I still feel like some items are not far off from what you pay in Canada.
I was expecting to be blown away by their prices… but I wasn’t. Sure, things like fancy Icelandic yogurt and organic coffee were expensive but other items are definitely comparable.

This is crazy her tits sag so bad and she has no shame. I mean not for nothing even thrift stores have bras like there’s NO EXCUSE! Sati getting coffees and liquor and get some dam bras

French but not idiotic enough
By Jeremy Clarkson (The Sunday Times, March 10)
On our annual family holiday to the south of France last year, I spotted a very good-looking car in Juan-les-Pins. It was a big Citroën of some sort, and I made a mental note to test-drive one as soon as possible.
I’ve always had a soft spot for the larger French car, mainly because they are always so idiotic. The Citroën CX with its vertically mounted stereo and on-or-off brakes. The Renault Avantime, a two-door people carrier, and the Vel Satis, which was a completely pointless leather-lined van. One of my favourite ever sports saloons was the Peugeot 505 GTi. You had a sense when driving it that if there were a Le Sweeney on French television, it’d be the car used by Jacques Regan. “Enfile ton pantalon, tu es arrêté.”
The problem for French carmakers is this: I’m the only person outside France who thinks like this. Everyone else who wants a large car buys an Audi or a BMW or a Mercedes. Only 200 DSs a month were sold in the UK last year, and have you ever seen one in Rome, Cologne or Dublin? No.
Only the French buy large French cars and doesn’t that strike you as odd and a bit jingoistically old-fashioned? Because when they sit down to think what qualities they want from a new car, they have to think, “I don’t care how shit it is just so long as it’s French.”
Over here we laugh at that notion. Or do we? I have a Chinese telephone, a Japanese television, a Swedish cooker, two Canadian dogs and an Irish girlfriend. But it’s a different story with my cars. I’ve a few relics from Top Gear and The Grand Tour knocking about, but the cars I actually own, and use, are a Bentley Flying Spur, a Range Rover, an F-Type Jag and a classic Mini. All British.
It’s strange. I was, and still am, a fervent Remainer and I’m happy to live in a globalised society. But when it comes to cars (and farming), there’s something buried deep in my soul that draws me to the home-grown option.
I know of course that my Bentley is German and the Jag and Land Rover are Indian and the behemoth that made the old Mini is now nothing more than a footnote in the history books. And I know they all have Italian brakes and German suspension components and Taiwanese brains. And I know the workforce that put all these components together will have come from all over the place. But there must be something in all these cars to which I’m drawn. God knows what. But it’s there. And cards on the table: driving a car that I know was made just down the road — same as eating a local pork chop — makes me happy.
All of which brings me back to the big Citroëny thing that I saw on my holidays last year.
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It’s made by Citroën, and it is a Citroën, but it’s not actually called a Citroën. To try to give it an upmarket flavour it’s called a DS 9. That excited me. Because it conjured up all those images of de Gaulle and the OAS and men in berets with Sten guns. The original DS was a car that could be driven flat out on three wheels. You could drive one across a ploughed field at 100mph and not spill your wine. It was unusual and mad and was much admired the world over by designer types. And me because it was idiotic.
So I was rather looking forward to my time in the modern-day equivalent. Naturally it’s a plug-in hybrid, which according to Citroën means it has an electric-only range of “42 miles (on the WLTP cycle) allowing for BIK rates from just 8%”. Not being interested in hybrid drive systems, I literally have no idea what any of this means.
What I do know is the car I tried was two-wheel drive in normal driving, then four-wheel drive when electric assistance was applied. This seems like an awful lot of bother just to save a polar bear. But there we are.
Of far more interest was the list of options you can fit. There were none. I don’t think I’ve ever even heard of that before. But there it was: a car that comes as standard with absolutely everything you can think of. Night vision, self-parking, ventilated seats, a 515-watt stereo, a sunroof, a motorised tailgate. Everything. It even had a camera system that reads the road ahead and then tunes the suspension to cope with what’s coming up.
This filled me with glee. The first big Citroën — not that it is a Citroën of course — since the old XM that would ride properly. And it doesn’t work. Or, to be fair, it does work but not well enough. The result is a car that doesn’t feel markedly different to every other car out there. And to make matters worse, instead of having squidgematic seats, which all big French cars should have, it has the sort of things you’d find in a Beemer. I was expecting this DS to be the last word in comfort. And it’s just normal.
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The dashboard is normal too. Sure, the clock is a joy to behold, and in about five years it’ll be worth more than the car, but the rest of it is straight from the pages of a book called How to Make a Car in 2024. The only quirk I could find is that there are so many toys, they’ve had to hide several of the controls on the back of the steering wheel.
Where is the rotating barrel speedo and the non-self-cancelling indicators? Gone, I’m afraid, because Citroën today is part of one great big company that also owns Peugeot, Fiat, Chrysler, Maserati, Dodge, Alfa Romeo, Lancia, Jeep, Opel and Vauxhall. There’s no room for nationalistic niceties in a group like that. Or rotating speedos.
Frankly I’m surprised there’s even room for the DS 9. Because while they may sell a hundred in France every month to Mr and Mrs Macron, it’s not idiotic enough to stand out. It may be very good-looking but, in reality, it’s just a car with a nice clock.
In case you were thinking that maybe you wanted a very good-looking car with a nice clock, let me explain why you’re almost certainly not going to buy one. First, you’re not French, and second, prices start at £56,000. The car I tested with more electrical oomph and all those toys is more than £73,000.
For that kind of money you’re better off with a BMW. I know that. We all do. This part of the market is where BMWs shine. It’s their home turf. So I’d buy a Jag.
THE CLARKSOMETER: DS 9 1.6 E-Tense 4x4 360 Opera
Engine: 1,598cc, 4 cylinders, turbo, petrol plus electric motor
Power: 360bhp (combined)
Torque: 384 lb ft (combined)
Acceleration: 0-62mph: 5.6 sec
Top speed: 155mph
Fuel: 183mpg
CO₂: 35g/km
Weight: 1,909kg
Price: £73,415
Release date: On sale now
Jeremy’s rating: ★★★☆☆
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The solution for all your architectural needs: a big metal box
By Jeremy Clarkson (The Sunday Times, March 10)
I was sitting in a traffic jam outside the Natural History Museum recently and I thought what I always think when I’m sitting in a traffic jam outside the Natural History Museum: that building is amazing.
And the amazingness goes way beyond all those terracotta gargoyles and the sheer enormity of the damn thing. Because it was built in just seven years for £330,000. Which was about £160,000 less than had been set aside in the budget.
And that brings us on to an interesting point. Back in the 19th century, the great and the good had realised that various naturalists were coming back from their exotic holidays with all sorts of beetles and dinosaurs and that none of these things were being properly looked after.
Hans Sloane, who bought Chelsea for £17,800 — that’s not the football club by the way, that’s Chelsea, all of it — had more than 71,000 items at home and if someone left a window open, they’d blow away. So it was decided that there should be a proper half-million-quid building where all these interesting spiders and brontosauruses could be housed.
And literally no one stood up and said: “But wouldn’t the money be better spent on hard-working families in the community?” Nor did the local planners say: “What if lots of people come to see these natural wonders? Where will they all park their horses?” They just decided to build it and then they did. And even today, it’s still amazing.
So is the Humber Bridge. Let’s be honest, the country didn’t really need to connect the villages of Barton and Hessle. But we just went ahead and did it anyway, and every time I see what used to be the longest suspension bridge in the world, spearing off into the morning mist, it always takes a little bit of my breath away.
Since then, however, everything’s gone backwards. Sure, there were still great British architects throwing up stuff like the Millau viaduct in France and the Pompidou Centre in Paris and the Heydar Aliyev Centre in Baku, which is my favourite building in the whole world. But all of these things, along with the spaceport in New Mexico and the pencil-slim KK100 skyscraper in China and those upended indoor gardens in Singapore, are abroad.
Here, if we build a house, we want it to look Georgian. Or like a tech company’s Seattle HQ. And for everything else, we use shipping containers.
I want to build a small stone barn at home so that I can grow mushrooms. But everyone is frowning and saying I should give the money this would cost to hard-working families in the community, and use a shipping container instead. But I won’t.
Mainly because I’m running out of the damn things. We have one at the farm shop which is used for storage and one lying round in a field that’s used to house chemicals and two more which are welded together to create a farm kitchen. Honestly, my yard looks like the foyer at Maersk’s world headquarters.
And I’m not alone. Every time you are outside a city centre railway station or on a Cornish coastal path, and you fancy a cup full of piping hot Israeli free peace coffee, and a vegan whelk, the man with the tattoo and the George Galloway T-shirt who serves it to you will be standing in a shipping container that he’s painted in all the colours of the rainbow.
Need to find the site manager on a construction site? He’ll be in a shipping container. There are now classrooms made out of shipping containers and hospital wards too. And why pay for your old dad to go into a proper home when he starts to wet himself? Let him see out his final days in a steel box. No one’s yet said that our immigrants could be housed in shipping containers, but I bet someone has thought of it.
It’s easy to understand why the shipping container has become our go-to solution for everything. Now that Covid has gone away and global shipping is back to normal, prices have tumbled so that now you can get a good 20-footer for less than £3,000. So if you include the cost of a window and a fan heater, you can have a home office in your garden by tomorrow evening for less than five grand. And because it’s moveable, you usually don’t need planning permission.
Good idea, yes? No. It isn’t. It’s a terrible idea. Shipping containers are built so that Chinese lust bums can be transported efficiently around the world. They were not designed for you to live in. And when I see one, they fill my heart with despair because practicality should never be allowed to trump aesthetics.
I believe they should be banned because they give us a get-out-of-jail-free card. They make us lazy. Imagine if they’d been around in the olden days. You’d have had Hans Sloane putting all his natural wonders in shipping containers rather than them going in the Natural History Museum.
The Royal Albert Hall. The Palace of Westminster. Stonehenge. They’d all have been metal boxes piled up on top of one another. Actually, scrub Stonehenge from that list because that’s what it probably was. Lazy-arse druids who couldn’t be bothered to build something nice.
Digressing slightly, I had a friend who wanted a swimming pool in his garden, but he only had a couple of hundred quid. So he got a skip, tilted it slightly to create a deep end, and then lit a brazier underneath it so that it was heated. Very heated, in fact, if you allowed your feet to touch the bottom.
Now you may think of this as a classic example of make-do-and-mend thinking. But what about our legacy? We built the great cathedrals and palaces and castles. And then we had all of the wondrous stately homes and those wide, elegant streets in Mayfair. And then, while the rest of the world went on to make cities in space, we all decided to live in small metal boxes and wash ourselves in skips.
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And here's the Sun column. Clarkson's columns are regularly collected as books. You can buy them from his boss or your local bookshop.