In the Telegraph today, John Chilton is quoted from his book about the time that George became a roadie for George Melly at the 1973 Reading Festival.
“Derek Taylor drove George and me to that celebrated event but on the way he suggested we drop in on his old friend George Harrison, who lived near Henley.
George and Pattie made us welcome, even though they were about to start a late, late breakfast. After he had finished eating, Harrison suddenly said he would like to go to the festival but we had to link up with the rest of the band at Reading so couldn’t wait for him. Nevertheless he promised to follow on. I took this information with a pinch of salt.
At the festival, we were slightly apprehensive because none of the other attractions on the bill played jazz. As we strode on to greet the audience of thirty thousand, I looked behind me and was totally astonished to see a ‘roadie’ putting a drum stool in position and then tidying up the stage. It was George Harrison. Nobody in the crowd had recognised him. The thought of seeing a world famous rock star roadieing for a middle-aged jazz group was too improbable for anyone to contemplate.“
This anecdote is just pure George from start to finish.
Today is hugbooksTreat Yo Shelf Day, so I thought it would be a great idea to tidy up and create a new shelf :) (well, technically, it’s not a shelf, it’s a table, but beggars can’t be choosers and all that) I’m really happy with how it turned out!
Okay so last night I saw this fanart, and it just really inspired me to write a pearlmethyst drabble based on like a behind the scenes of what may/may not have happened when Pearl and Ame were together in Key Stone Motel and also an alternative ending where they form Opal rather than Ame just seen comforting Pearl.
The streets are unusually quiet. If Casey stops to close their eyes for a second and breathe, it could almost sound like they’re back home. Distant noises of the dockworkers filter through the hot air: thick ropes thudding on wooden slats, the water splashing against the shore, shouts and call-outs, voices dancing through the air with the sudden, cutting breeze. The clocktower off in the distance is still, as if completely unused. Shopkeepers take a breath, recognizing the moment’s peace to tidy up storefronts.
Casey is sitting on a bench overlooking the zee, allowing a moment of reprieve from thinking about their task ahead. Locating the prison has been largely unsuccessful for the most part—how can an entire building be lost, or hidden?–and the frustration has been an increasingly suffocating feeling. Up above in the cavern roof, broiling clouds start to churn, planning the next set of laws to be unleashed upon the Republic.
Shutters and doorways begin to close. Footsteps on the ground.
They snap their attention to their surroundings immediately, realizing the eerie quiet is hiding something. In most cases, silence is the biggest giveaway to oncoming trouble—noises to be detected, scents permeating the air—but silence was keeping the biggest lie of the day. Calm doesn’t mean safe.
The moment they jump to their feet is the exact moment the group is upon them. Four—no, five—individuals light on their feet had approached Casey at the bench, being led by a petite woman dressed down in practical dockworker’s garb. Nobody is smiling, and the lead woman’s expression is hardened with concealed rage. Casey studies their faces carefully, a vague sense of knowing rising up into their head, but it’s the leader’s face that catches their breath.