S Diggity Dot

Oya o. Time to support the dream o. Here's the audiomack link for my latest single titled "Talkin' in the Rubbish(tey tey). Show me some love o! audiomack.com/song/sdotiam/t…

@DJINEE 2 whole decades.

Braaaaahhhhhhh!!!!

I'd wanted to post in January how @SOUNDCITYtv had been on cable TV with presenter-based shows for 20 years now. The channel went live on dstv in October 2005, I believe. Unreal how time has flown by. @TajADEPETU @DJINEE @dejiphuemz @DENRELE_EDUN @yeancahdiva

Tine in to @SmailzRadio to catch me on The Groove Hub

This Arsenal team has fallen apart at the worst possible time. Sigh.

Peanuts in Coke is one of the most accidentally perfect food pairings in history, and the chemistry explains why this guy can't go back. Coca-Cola sits at pH 2.5, roughly the same acidity as stomach acid. When you drop roasted peanuts into that, the phosphoric acid partially denatures the surface proteins on the nut, releasing free glutamate. You're generating umami in real time inside the glass. The salt on the peanuts suppresses bitter taste receptors on your tongue, which amplifies your perception of sweetness without adding a single gram of sugar. Coca-Cola already has 39g of sugar per can. Your brain registers it as even sweeter because the salt is clearing the noise from competing flavor signals. Then carbonation does two things. CO2 dissolved in liquid forms carbonic acid, which triggers pain receptors (TRPA1), not taste receptors. That mild irritation resets your palate between sips so you never get flavor fatigue. Every sip hits like the first. Second, the bubbles physically agitate the peanut surface, accelerating the protein breakdown and glutamate release. The longer the peanuts sit, the more umami you extract. The fat content seals it. Peanuts are 49% fat by weight. Fat is the only macronutrient that activates CD36 receptors, which your brain interprets as richness and satisfaction. Mix that with sugar, salt, acid, umami, and carbonation and you've accidentally triggered every major reward pathway in the human taste system simultaneously. Georgia farmers in the 1920s did this because they needed one hand free while working. They stumbled into the optimal salt-acid-umami-fat-carbonation loop a century before food science could explain why it worked.

@AgbaChadox @DemoOsha22 NEVER!

Gabriel scored the first goal: Peter Drury: "And Jesus heads home from the Cross" 30 minutes later Pep subs Gabriel Jesus and bring in David Silva Peter Drury: "minutes 30 and it's Silver for Jesus.. whoa! wonderful, A move Judas Iscariot would be proud of" Is football ever going to replace Peter Drury ?

@Issybeatz_ @brownondatrack Mainly Cakewalk and Cubase

Before FL Studio existed, which DAW did producers use?

@splashmusik There was a caught

which one is I sold you people a dream and disappeared lmao. The barber responsible for this Headline, his heaven is view once 😂😂. Thanks for all the love under this post ❤️❤️❤️❤️. You can follow me on instagram to know when I drop anything new @splash_dotcom

I honestly should just start posting random memories from my days as a @SOUNDCITYtv presenter just for the fun of it. Like the experience from the very 1st stop for the Sound city campus tour back in 2006!

Me: Dad I want to make my hair Him : Go and make it now Me: Money Him: How much? Me 3500 ( in my head; attachment x2=800, stylist=1000, transport and miscellaneous =1000. Pocket the rest) Him: Ha! Isn’t it better if you barb it? My barber takes 100, it is when I want to dash him money that I pay 200 Me: OK goes back to my room 30 minutes later Him: Aren’t you making your hair again? Me: But you said I should go and cut it now Him: you better do quick. I will not wait for you o. I’m going to town now. Me : Rushed to the bathroom to take a bath and get ready He drops me at the saloon Him: Call me him when you’re done and gives me 3500 2hrs later he calls, are you done? I’m going home o Me: We’re not even half done. I’ll just meet you at home Him: aren’t you hungry Me: I am very hungry, but I’ll just buy mineral and biscuits. Him: OK don’t stay out too late. Me: OK sir A few moments later he calls again to ask how many of us were in the saloon? My dad brought food for all 3 of us. The woman making my hair asked if he was my boyfriend and I said my Dad, the other lady said maybe she is his only child. This man has 9 of us and he is like that with every single one He went ahead to wait 2 extra hours just to take me home, so I don’t have to go home by myself at night. Also the first to compliment my hair even though he complained about it being too much and too long. That man has loved me my entire life, being actively present and I would give him the entire universe if I could.

Arsenal have scored 106 goals this season in all competitions. Less than 30% of those goals, were from “set pieces” 52% of the set piece goals (15% of the 106) have been from corners. This means that SEVENTY ONE PERCENT (71%) of Arsenal’s 106 goals have been from open play. Yet apparently we’ve been reliant on corners this season… Agenda gonna agend I guess 🤷🏼‍♂️

🇧🇷🗣️ This is an INCREDIBLE story from David Luiz about his time in Paris: “A few months after I moved to Paris, two of my friends from Diadema came to spend some time with me there. They had broken up with their wife and girlfriend and were sad, so I invited them, hoping the visit would help clear their minds. Great. “They soon met other Brazilians, who played for a team like the seventh-division amateur league in the suburbs of Paris — all immigrants without proper papers. “Every night, my two friends came home angry, complaining that they were constantly beaten up. So, I said: “I’ll go over there tomorrow to watch you play.” And I did. “I arrived wearing a ninja hat, half disguised, and watched. The opponents were all dressed up, with their uniforms, equipment, water bottles, and a coach. And my friends’ team was wearing nothing: one in white shorts, another in purple, a third in yellow. The guys were hanging from the goalposts to warm up…. It was a mess. At the end of the match, which they lost, I asked: “Do you want me to train the team?” I’ll never forget the guys’ smiles. They were so genuinely happy and excited, something I had only seen when I was a kid, when we would fly kites in Diadema. I started training the guys every Monday, from 10 to midnight. Sometimes I would train them on Monday and play a Champions League match on Tuesday. I even remember scoring a goal against Barcelona on one of those days. I started loving Mondays. I couldn’t wait to be with those guys. We talked, I listened a lot, and I got to know each one’s stories and struggles. “Some made money playing capoeira, others delivering items on motorbikes or washing dishes. All of them had a hard life, afraid because of their illegal status, with little hope that things would improve, but football brightened up and took the weight off their days. On my first holidays, I went back to Brazil and went to talk to the ultimate crazy woman, my mother: “Mum, can you make stuff for the boys there?” “Say no more! She made travel polo shirts, tracksuits, match uniforms, training uniforms, everything in sizes S, M, L, XL…. I went back to Paris with 21 suitcases. The guys’ dedication grew along with their joy. We started training twice a week, then three times. We got promoted, and at the end of the season, I had a crazy idea. Another one. “I’m going to throw a gala for the team, just like PSG does for us every year.” I rented a castle-like nightclub where Matuidi had thrown his birthday party and started producing ours. “I had already hired a guy who used to film for PSG to film our guys’ matches, too. I asked him to bring all the videos to my house so we could watch them and choose the best goals of the year, the top scorer, the goalkeeper’s best saves. Let’s show them on the big screen! Then I ordered trophies for the winners of each category. Hey, but what about the others? Plaques! We’re going to make little wooden-and-acrylic plaques with each one’s name on them. Everything was perfect. The day before, I called the guys together: “Do you have a white button-up shirt and a basic black coat for tomorrow’s party?” Nobody had one. OK, I will buy you some. I went to the store myself and got some. Then I thought about their girlfriends and wives. I called the group again and gave each one some pocket money so that their SOs could buy a dress if they wanted. The party night arrived. And if I told you it was incredible, one of the most extraordinary emotional moments of my life, as cool as winning the Champions League, would you believe me?” (🎙️ @TPTFootball)

Listen to more funky tunes from Christy Essien Igbokwe open.spotify.com/playlist/37i9d… #youcantchangeaman #christyessien #ladyofsongs

No wonder why Huawei got banned

⏰Today at 11:00AM Tax Reform in Nigeria & Personal Income (Part 2). Don’t miss it #TheTaxTalkTV #TaxReform #LIRS

Ear fatigue is the silent killer of great records. If you’ve been looping the same four bars for three hours, you’re no longer mixing; you’re just guessing.

Every Sunday at exactly 3:17 p.m., my father called me. Not 3:15. Not 3:20. 3:17. It started a month after he retired. At first, I thought it was boredom. Then habit. Then aging. But it never changed. If I picked up, he’d say the same thing: “Are you home?” If I said yes, he’d reply, “Good. Just checking,” and hang up. If I said no, there’d be a pause. Then he’d say, “Alright. Call me when you’re back.” That was it. No small talk. No updates. No “how are you?” Just… checking. My wife thought it was sweet. I thought it was strange. One Sunday, I decided not to answer. I was home. I just let it ring. At 3:18 p.m., he called again. I ignored it. At 3:19 p.m., my wife’s phone rang. She frowned. “It’s your dad.” I gestured for her not to answer. The phone stopped. At 3:21 p.m., the landline rang. No one even has that number. We stared at it. It stopped after five rings. At 3:24 p.m., someone knocked on the door. Three sharp knocks. Not aggressive. Precise. I opened it. My father stood there. Calm. Neatly dressed. Slightly out of breath. “Why didn’t you answer?” he asked. “I was busy.” He looked past me into the living room. “You’re home.” “Yes.” He nodded slowly. Then said something he’d never said before. “Good.” And he left. That night, I drove to his house. I needed to understand. He lived alone since my mother passed. Same house I grew up in. Same curtains. He opened the door before I knocked. “You came,” he said. “Dad, why do you call every Sunday?” He studied me for a moment. “Come in.” We sat at the dining table. He didn’t speak immediately. He rarely does. Finally, he stood up and walked to a locked drawer in the hallway. He pulled out a thin folder. Inside were newspaper clippings. House fires. Robberies. Gas leaks. Carbon monoxide deaths. All circled in red. “Every single one,” he said quietly, “happened on a Sunday afternoon.” I blinked. “That doesn’t mean..” He held up a hand. “When your mother died, I was in the garden.” I swallowed. “I was ten feet away. Ten feet. She called once. I didn’t hear her.” Silence stretched between us. “I promised myself,” he continued, “that if something ever happened to you, I would not be in the garden.” My chest tightened. “So you call me to make sure I’m alive?” He looked at me steadily. “No.” A long pause. “I call to make sure you answer.” I frowned. “What’s the difference?” He leaned back in his chair. “If you answer, I know you can.” The words didn’t land immediately. Then they did. “If you couldn’t answer,” he continued calmly, “I would already be driving.” My stomach dropped. “You’ve been ready to come over every Sunday?” “Yes.” “Even when I said I wasn’t home?” He nodded. “I wait ten minutes. Then I check.” A cold realization crept up my spine. “Dad… how many times have you come?” He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he looked toward the window. “Six.” Six Sundays. Six times he drove to my house. Six times he must have stood outside. Watching. Making sure. I tried to laugh it off. “That’s extreme.” He didn’t smile. “You think emergencies schedule appointments?” We sat there in heavy silence. Then I asked the question that had been building all evening. “Why 3:17?” For the first time, his composure cracked. “That’s the time on the hospital clock,” he said softly, “when they told me she was gone.” The air left my lungs. He wasn’t checking on me. He was trying to outrun a minute. Every Sunday. For years. I drove home that night differently. The following Sunday at 3:16 p.m., my phone was in my hand. At 3:17, it rang. I answered on the first vibration. “Hi Dad.” There was a pause. Then, for the first time ever, he said something new. “I know.” And he hung up.

Look at the way she was excited, genuine reactions like this are priceless🥹❤️

J. Cole is going city to city & selling physical CD’s for $1 each. It takes 200-333 streams to make $1.