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Daily Mail and John Deacon


Steve Browning

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5 hours ago, Newfoundfreedom said:

I may have been in the company of several famous people in my life and I probably wouldn't realize. Honestly, I doubt I'd even recognise Brian May if his hair was in my soup. Famous People belong on telly or on stage. They have no business existing in the real world. 😋

I used to see Brian May and Anita Dobson with annoying regularity on Kingston high street back in the mid-90s. He was hard to miss and you could hear him coming because of his clogs. 

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6 hours ago, cetera said:


I have seen him in a Beefeater by the A3 near Richmond Park. Seriously..... no word of a lie....

Just read Eric Idle`s new book. He was standing somewhere with George Harrison and a guy walked up and astonished at seeing George, he asked him what he was doing here, "everybody`s gotta be somewhere" says George.

 

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19 minutes ago, jezzaboy said:

Just read Eric Idle`s new book. He was standing somewhere with George Harrison and a guy walked up and astonished at seeing George, he asked him what he was doing here, "everybody`s gotta be somewhere" says George.

I got lost and had cause to press a random doorbell to ask directions. Vic Reeves opened the door. I said, 'Vic Reeves!' He said, 'Yes. I live here'.

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If John ever did want to explain his gear etc, he wouldn't have to involve the press or journalists nowadays.

Just get an agent to set up a YouTube account on his behalf and post a video.

No journalists, no awkward questions, no involvement from anyone, no intrusions, no tracability. Just whatever he wanted to show.

Oh, and make sure to disable the comments option to avoid the morons!

Good on him for what he wants to do. Certainly earned the right to life a private life.

 

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3 hours ago, skankdelvar said:

After Mr George Orwell and his essay The Moon Under Water:

My favourite public-house, the Frog and Fakkit is only two minutes from the central car park, but it is on a side-street, and polite little families and well-dressed couples never seem to find their way there, even on Saturday lunchtimes.

Its clientele, though fairly large, consists mostly of ‘regulars’ who spend much of their day in a recumbent position in the nearby park and go to the Frog and Fakkit for the drugs available from a weasel-featured man named Danny as much as for the beer.

If you are asked why you favour a particular public-house, it would seem natural to put the drugs first, but the thing that most appeals to me about the Frog and Fakkit is what people call its ‘ambience’.

To begin with, its whole architecture and fittings are uncompromisingly 1970’s. It has a mixed bag of formica-topped tables and cast-iron tractor-seat chairs, plastic panels masquerading as oak and peeling, Paisley wallpaper. The sticky carpet, the gouged bar top, the fake horse brasses adorning the walls and the ceiling stained dark brown by tobacco-smoke, the nudie-picture calendar behind the bar — everything has the solid, comfortable ugliness of the mid-twentieth century.

In winter there is generally a good fire burning in the skip outside the front door, and the ‘last century’  lay-out of the place encourages those fleeting collisions which lead so gratifyingly to flare-ups of savage violence. There are a public bar, a saloon bar, a dealers’ bar, an off-sales counter for underage drinkers and – upstairs – a large, empty room in which on Tuesdays Fridays and Saturdays live bands perform to the utter indifference of the patrons below.

In the Frog and Fakkit  it is never quiet enough to talk. There is a radio behind the bar tuned to Heart FM, a ‘digital’ juke box, two fruit machines, Sky Television and piped-in music. All are playing simultaneously and the only time they cannot be heard is when a band of hopelessly incompetent hobbyist ‘musicians’ is upstairs performing Sex On Fire.

The barmaids know their customers by name, having at some time taken most of them upstairs there to conjoin on a soiled mattress under the ‘stage’ . They are all middle-aged women—two of them have no teeth—and they call everyone ‘yew fakkin kant’ irrespective of age or sex.

You cannot get lunch at the Frog and Fakkit but there is - beside the plywood lavatory door - a snack counter where you can purchase expired pickled eggs or pork luncheon meat fried in batter (cold).

They are particular about their drinking vessels at the Frog and Fakkit, and never, for example, make the mistake of serving a pint of beer in a glass. Apart a selection of ‘pewter’ mugs screwed to the canopy which overhangs the bar every receptacle is made of plastic, a wide and vivid scar on the landlord’s jaw perhaps testifying to the matter.

The great surprise of the Frog and Fakkit is its lavatory. You go through a narrow passage leading out of the saloon, and find yourself in a fairly large garden with plane trees, under which there are old car tyres, broken bottles and the remains of a tramp who expired there a few years ago. Up at one end of the garden there is a roofless garden shed wherein the customer in search of relief will discover a spreading pool of urine, a stained plastic bucket containing a noisome admixture, and a pile of newspapers, mostly editions of the Daily Mail from the period when said organ was edited by Mr Paul Dacre.

On summer evenings there are ritual human sacrifices, and you sit under the plane trees injecting skag to the tune of delighted squeals from feral children prodding the burnt offering with sticks.

The Frog and Fakkit is my ideal of what a pub should be—at any rate, in a metropolitan area. (The qualities one expects of a country pub are slightly different.)

But now is the time to reveal something which the discerning and disillusioned reader will probably have guessed already. There is no such place as the Frog and Fakkit.

That is to say, there may well be a pub of that name, but I don’t know of it, nor do I know any pub with just that combination of qualities.

So if anyone knows of a pub that has junkies of every persuasion, food poisoning, brutal violence, insanitary facilities, deafening noise, regular visits by Plod, a reeking midden in the garden and prostitute barmaids I should be glad to hear of it, even though its name were something as prosaic as the Red Lion or Wetherspoons.

 

Yep i love Luton pubs too

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18 hours ago, discreet said:

Let's get back on topic...

I don't like Wetherspoons because they don't let you sit at the bar. I like to entertain everyone by getting very drunk at the bar and making amusing, witty comments about the appearance of the other customers and staff. If they have a hilarious tic, rubbish hair or particularly bad dress-sense, so much the better. But oh no, you have to take your drink to a bloody table and sit there like some kind of sad, friendless loner. Also, the beer is shít.

They make you sit downbecause the bar staff like to do all what you do instead

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5 minutes ago, jazzmanb said:

They make you sit down because the bar staff like to do all what you do instead.

I wouldn't even mind that so much if they at least had that most basic of skills, remembering who came to the bar first and in what order. But they can't even do that - they'll serve everyone waiting in a completely random way, thus píssing off those customers who have been waiting longest. It's not hard to do, is it?

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Still, I can't complain about pubs - I haven't been in one for at least five years and I haven't been intoxicated with alcohol anywhere else in that time, either. Now... what was the topic again? I bet whatever it is I'm off it. Tchoh! 9_9

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4 minutes ago, Rich said:

Sorry for the hijack, but it still makes me cross when I think of it. As you were. :) 

This sort of 'service' really raises the temperature of my urine to over 100 degrees C. What sort of country is it that to get merely an acceptable level of attention from customer-facing employees you have to charge around like a bull in a china shop, shouting the odds? It does my blood pressure (and karma) no good whatsoever. Glad I don't use pubs any more. Or shops. Or public transport.

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44 minutes ago, MacDaddy said:

i'm sure i remember an interview with Brian May, in which he said they are contact with John regarding all Queen issues, and John was happy about it all and said 'keep sending me the cheques!".

the article alluded to this as well

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On 29/10/2018 at 18:58, skankdelvar said:

 

So if anyone knows of a pub that has junkies of every persuasion, food poisoning, brutal violence, insanitary facilities, deafening noise, regular visits by Plod, a reeking midden in the garden and prostitute barmaids I should be glad to hear of it, even though its name were something as prosaic as the Red Lion or Wetherspoons.

I knew of a boozer like that back in the '80s, bar the noise and the midden. It lost its license for the frequency of the other descriptions.

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On 29/10/2018 at 18:58, skankdelvar said:

...if anyone knows of a pub that has junkies of every persuasion, food poisoning, brutal violence, insanitary facilities, deafening noise, regular visits by Plod, a reeking midden in the garden and prostitute barmaids I should be glad to hear of it...

Take my hand and join me for a homophobic beating in Deptford. We'll top off the evening with a fatal heroin overdose in South Norwood.

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