#cheap queen tour

[holycheapqueen]

King Princess by Jenna Hum

[evereverest2]

Pathetic — Terzomega

~part three of the Little Monster series~

3.1k words ~ smut

The night at the hotel doesn’t go quite as anticipated for the intoxicated Terzo and irritated Omega.

a tonal return to part one, but this time, the ending is not so mean spirited

[parts:] one | previous | next

—

The hotel they happened upon was not meant for someone like Terzo, who was drowning in his wealth and prowess. It was the type that the band usually stayed in while touring: cheap and convenient. It was neither trashy nor shoddy, but somewhere a middle-class family might stay on a road trip. Omega knew that Terzo would likely not prefer it.

Not that Terzo was lucid enough to complain.

The car driver ran inside. Terzo was lazily staring out the window. He returned after some minutes.

“They only have one room. It’s just a queen bed.”

“Ah, that’s fine,” Terzo slurred, waving him off. “We can all cuddle.”

Omega ignored him. “Are there any other hotels around here?”

The driver shook his head. “Not for another twenty minutes at least. Even then, they might not have any vacancy.”

Omega gritted his teeth. “Fine. Just get it.”

The driver ran back in. Omega left the car and walked around to open the door for Terzo, who sluggishly grabbed at random parts of the car to pull himself up. He was moving too slowly, so Omega yanked him out by the arm.

“Wait, my taco ring!”

Omega sighed, grabbing the box of tacos and slamming the car door shut. He supported Terzo as they walked inside, who seemed to have trouble walking straight. The driver handed Omega the keycard and told him the room they were in as they passed him.

“When would you like me back?”

“I don’t know.” Omega was too irritated to think with Terzo actively attempting to feel up his chest. “I’ll let you know tomorrow.”

The driver nodded and left.

Omega dragged him onto the elevator. Terzo tried to reach up to kiss him, standing on his toes, but he was too short to reach his lips. Omega refused to bend, even look down. Terzo grabbed at his shoulders and neck like a child, but he did not budge.

“You asshole,” he mumbled bitterly, giving up.

Omega guided them to their room. The moment he unlocked the door, Terzo leaped into the bed face-first. He sat up and enjoyed yet another taco.

Omega took off his coat and shoes, looking around the room. It was simple. Coffee-colored walls with green and white accents. He crossed the room and sat in the sage-green armchair, sighing. He did not care that they missed curfew; he only wanted to avoid spending the night with Terzo. In all their trysts, he had yet to sleep in the same bed as Terzo, and he was not ready for tonight to be the night.

“Mm,” Terzo waved at him, swallowing down a taco. “Come here.”

Omega stayed put. After a few minutes, Terzo stood and walked to him, standing between his legs. He looked down at him with unfocused eyes, slowly unbuttoning his shirt. Omega said nothing; just watched. Terzo slipped it off his shoulders, dropping it to the floor. He unbuttoned his tight pants, drawing attention to the bulge peeking out from the open zipper. He gazed at Omega, his eyes peering through him from just above his sunglasses.

Terzo moved to sit on his lap, knees pressed between the armrests and Omega’s thighs. He grabbed Omega’s hand, guiding it to run across his torso, down to his crotch. Omega stopped it there, giving it a small squeeze but moving no further. Terzo’s eyebrows pinched.

“Mostriciatto, won’t you touch me?”

Omega cocked his head to the side, prompting him to continue begging.

“Please, Omega,” Terzo thrust his hips forward for friction.

Omega continued saying nothing. He dropped his hand, using his fist to rest his head. He continued watching him boredly. If Terzo wanted him, he would have to work for it.

Terzo frowned, looking offended. He stood, turned around, and began grinding on Omega’s lap, doing anything to get his attention. Omega was still silent, but his legs widened welcomingly.

“You like it,” Terzo smirked. “Should I keep going?”

He said nothing. Terzo stood, pulling away.

Omega was just about done with this night and thought he might as well get something out of the whole mess. And, of course, he never minded an opportunity to punish the cardinal with his body.

“Strip,” Omega barked. Terzo did so quickly, eagerly. Omega reached down to undo his own zipper, quickly yanking Terzo against him, his dick sliding underneath him. Omega held him by the throat, the waist, his nails digging into his skin. He murmured darkly, “Ride me.”

Terzo wiggled slightly, his breath labored, moving to press Omega’s cock against himself, slowly slipping it in with a gentle whine. Omega let go of his neck, grabbed his hips, and forced the rest in, their skin clapping together with the effort.

“Ah, mostriciatto, you always do that…” he complained, looking over his shoulder. “You are not one for foreplay, si?”

“Move.”

Terzo grabbed his thighs for support, his feet planted awkwardly, and began thrusting himself up and down. It was slow; he was making a great effort at it, groaning all the while. Omega breathed out a slow, deep breath, enjoying the sensation, even slow. He would allow it for a while because he knew Terzo was trying to adjust to his size. And heavily intoxicated.

But Omega grew impatient. Frustrated. This was about his pleasure, not Terzo’s, who had already gotten off tonight. He sat up, grabbed Terzo by the throat again, and began powerfully rocking upwards into him.

“Mostriciatto—” Terzo choked out. Omega hummed lowly, almost a moan, focused completely on abusing Terzo’s tight ass. Listening to his staggered breaths, his breathy gasps as he was choked, his stuttered moans. He reveled in it, wanting more of it. The urge to watch Terzo unravel filled his being. He wanted to destroy him. If he had to suffer sharing a bed, he would ensure the pathetic man could not move by the night's end.

Their current position was not lending to his speed. Omega picked up Terzo like nothing and threw him onto the bed, bending him over at the side so his legs still touched the ground, lending to a perfect angle for Omega. Terzo went down with a grunt. Omega grabbed him by the hair and pushed his head into the mattress, thrusting into him as fast as he could.

“Omega— Omega— Wait—”

Omega sensed something was wrong, as this was not his normal tone. He let go of his head, pulling out and backing away. Terzo urgently got up, stumbling away into the bathroom. Moments later, Omega heard retching.

He entered the bathroom to find Terzo hanging over the toilet, the night’s fun projecting out his throat.

That misery returned, filling the room like the stench of vomit. Tonight, instead of angry rain storms, it smelled sour, like a carcass left to rot in the dark. Omega could feel it clearly now. It was painful and gut-wrenching. Terzo stared at nothing, lying his cheek on the toilet seat, eyes welled with tears, grime around his lips and chin. He looked as if his soul had left his body. It was no wonder. Through feeling his pain, Omega felt his heart was being strangled.

“I’m sorry, Omega ghoul,” he said weakly. The tears finally burst from his eyes, down his face. He shut them as if the very act of seeing was too much.

Suddenly acting as if not his own, Omega sat next to him. He pushed the loose strands of black hair from his face, ripping off squares of toilet paper to wipe his mouth. His eyes opened again, filled with a spark of emotion.

“Are you okay?” Omega asked quietly.

Terzo shook his head. “I am pathetic.”

Omega said nothing, which prompted him to continue.

“The side effects of fun.” He smiled weakly. “It always hurts when you can think again, no?”

“What do you think?”

Terzo stared at the ground. “Where is that, eh, vodka?”

“You left it in the car.”

“How about my… explosion beverage?”

Omega’s brows furrowed. This game Terzo played of destroying his body was irritating. To hide his misery. Omega would no longer tolerate it. Without a word, he stood, retrieved his drink, and returned to dump it down the sink. Terzo watched, clearly disappointed.

“Asshole mostriciatto. It was to settle my stomach.”

“That wouldn’t have helped.”

“Will you get my cigarettes in my pants?”

Omega sat across from him, against the bathtub. “Take a breather.”

Terzo winced, idly rubbing his stomach. “It helps with the pains.”

“No.”

“I have a guy; he can bring us crack,” Terzo suggested.

“No.”

“Weed?”

“No.”

“Fine. What would you like?”

“Nothing. You’re done tonight.”

Terzo pouted. “I’d rather not, monstriciatto. I appreciate the concern, but tomorrow, we will be back in the Ministry, and I will be free from your control. I would like to skip the pain in between.”

Omega knew he was right. “You’re not getting anything from me.”

“Then I will grab my phone and get it myself.” He made no attempt to move, though, still clearly nauseous. Omega crossed his arms.

“You must hate me, Omega ghoul.”

He did. Well— he thought he did. This night was making Omega doubt that now.

“Do you like me in pain? No— I already know you do. This is why you choke me and run me into furniture.”

“That’s different.”

“I know how you feel about me, mostriciatto. Even now, I see how your lips curl when I call you that. You don’t like me. I know you sleep with me just to hurt me more. It’s fun for you to hurt me. I am not stupid.”

Omega had no response. He thought Terzo was too blissfully unaware of the world to realize, too consumed by his own self-flagellation. Omega always thought Terzo either did not know or did not care.

“I am right, no? So now you torture me with withdrawal to prove a point.”

“You’re the one who keeps coming back to me,” Omega said defensively.

“Because you don’t lie to me. When you fuck me with your hatred, you tell the truth. This is why I call you mostriciatto. You only treat me this way. You are my monster.”

Omega shook his head. “I’m not your anything. I just want you to stop getting yourself so fucked up it makes you sick.”

“Don’t pretend you care about me,” Terzo laughed humorlessly. “Let me be as you always have.”

“Terzo, I know you’re in pain, but—”

“No, you shut your mouth!” he shouted. “You do not care if I drink until it stops you from fucking me! Omega ghoul, you should know my feelings all along with your powers, and yet tonight you lecture me? I like you because you do not lie to me before, but now you do. If I let you finish up my ass, will you leave me alone?”

Maybe Omega had known all along that Terzo was struggling and chose to ignore it. Was it not so obvious all along? After all, how could he have shared such intimacy with him, over and over, only to not realize how he was coping with his pain? Where had Omega gone, a quintessence ghoul who once thought himself so empathetic, that he could ignore such a broken man? He was speechless. For so long, he had been filled with such rage and hatred that he had been blinded to those he once sought to help. He had been pulling away from everyone. From his duties, from his music, from his own ghouls. All he did was stalk around the Ministry, belligerently doing his hundreds of duties, avoiding everyone except Terzo, who allowed him to vent his anger without judgment.

Why had he been so angry for so long?

“It’s for your own good,” Omega finally said. Perhaps helping Terzo tonight could be his first step to being himself again.

“No, I am not feeling very good. Tomorrow, I will go to my quarters and forget any of this happened at all. You are just making me hate you. I do not want to hate you.”

“...Why not?”

“You are all I have, mostriciatto.” His voice was thick with tears. He looked away from him, clutching his stomach. “It is fine for you to hate me because it’s better than being invisible. But if I hate you, then I will have nothing.”

Omega stared at him. Suddenly, Terzo dove for the toilet again. Omega cringed in disgust.

“You already have nothing.”

Terzo spat a few times and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His glaring white eye bored into Omega, which was unusually unsettling.

“You think I don’t know that? I do not need you to insult me after putting me through this.” His voice broke, and with it came more tears. “You are being worse than usual.”

Omega decided to stay silent. The situation was quickly becoming something he was unequipped to deal with. Indeed, Omega still felt his anger, turmoil, disgust, and hatred toward the cardinal. Even if he wanted to help, he had trouble finding the words.

Terzo wept quietly, swiping toilet paper across his face to catch his black tears. Minutes went by before Terzo looked up again. He asked, “Please, mostriciattio. Just my cigarettes. It will help the nausea.”

Omega relented because he felt enormous guilt about the situation. He stood and delivered his request without a word.

His fingers shook fiercely. It took him several tries to even flick the lighter on. He inhaled slowly, smoke drifting from his lips and nostrils. After a few drags, Terzo was calmer. He moved to stand, clearly unsteady. Omega caught him on instinct.

“Let me go,” he huffed. “I’m fine.”

Omega ignored him, and Terzo did not seem to care. When they were stood, Terzo leaned on Omega as they made their way out, eventually reaching the bed to lie down. Omega lay on the other side with a large sigh. He realized how exhausted he was all at once. For just a moment, he allowed himself to shut his eyes.

Suddenly, a weight was thrown around his waist. His eyes shot open to see Terzo mounting his hips.

“No, Terzo. You’ve had enough tonight,” Omega said sternly, glaring at him.

“What? You did not get off.” The end of his cigarette was clenched in his lips, looking just about ready to be put out.

“I’m tired.”

Terzo ground down on his hips a few times, inspiring a measly half-on from Omega that he had no desire to satiate. Terzo himself was rock hard, and he was stroking himself lazily.

“It will be rapido,” Terzo said breathily.

“No.”

“Mostriciatto—”

“I’m serious. Get off of me. I’m done.”

Terzo’s eyes flit back and forth, searching. He looked down at himself, then back at Omega. He slowly stopped stroking himself off. An overwhelming wave of self-hatred and desperation began radiating off him, bringing back a sickly sweet stench like rotting flowers.

“What…” His face changed, his eyes wide, his mouth open like a silent scream. “What is wrong with me?”

Omega watched him, uncertain.

“You do not want me anymore?”

“Not tonight.”

“No… You ended us. You do not…” Terzo turned his head away, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Terzo, I’m just tired, that’s all.” Omega watched him, unnerved at his instability.

“I will let you hurt me,” he burst out. “You can do anything you want. I don’t care.”

“No, Terzo.”

“No— no, you can do anything. You can bite me and break my bones, you can— you can kill me, mostriciattio, you can eat me alive. Anything.”

“No…” Omega was increasingly becoming disturbed.

“You like when I hurt!” Terzo sobbed, holding his head with one hand, his cigarette with the other. “When you hurt me, you see me.”

Omega shook his head slowly, stunned into silence. Terzo’s entire body heaved with his gasping breaths, crumpling into himself. He held up a shaking hand, with a burning cigarette butt between his fingers, and suddenly crushed it in his hand. He cried out in pain. Omega sat up, grabbing his wrist to force his hand open, letting the ash fall to the bed beside them. An angry red mark was visible on the top of his palm and fingers. Omega quickly swiped away the remnants of the cigarette.

“What the fuck are you doing?!” Omega yelled in his face. His grip was tight on his wrist, his other hand grabbing his shoulder, shaking him once.

Terzo stared at him. A whimper. His cock twitched once, twice. Omega sensed it in him. Arousal. Hot and fast. His breath caught, and he came.

Omega looked down in shock, and when he looked up again, Terzo was crying inconsolably.

“You— you— see— mostri—” he heaved, almost incomprehensible.

“Stop it, just stop it.” Omega pulled him into a tight embrace, his walls broken down. Terzo needed him. He may have been a pain in the ass, an egotistical maniac, but he was broken inside. He needed someone to show him compassion. Anyone.

And it should have been Omega all along.

“I don’t want you to be in pain. I don’t.”

Terzo buried his head in his shoulder, his arms wrapped tightly around him. His sobs practically shook the bed. Omega ran his fingers through his hair, his claws scratching his scalp gently, the other hand rubbing his back.

He finally settled down, but it took a long time and many tears. At some point, Omega had laid him down on his side, but he refused to let go of the ghoul, so they were stuck intertwined. When Omega sensed he had finally fallen asleep, he detangled them to stand.

First was the matter of the ashes, which he did his best to swipe off the bed. Then, he carefully cleaned Terzo’s skin of his earlier excitement, but it had unfortunately long settled into the fabric of Omega’s shirt. He stripped his shirt off and, along with Terzo’s clothes, put it in the laundry bag in the closet and set it outside their room to be cleaned. He also picked up the box of spilled tacos and set it on the table.

Omega lay back in bed, and Terzo found him in an instant, attaching himself to him like a leech. His face settled against his hairy chest, and Omega found it in him to, for the first time in a long time, smile.

He quickly wiped it away.

[parts:] one | previous | next

buy me a kofi <3

[brf-rumortrackinganon]

what do you think about Harry's planned vacation to UK for a whole month? I don't think that will ever happen but if it does, where would he even stay? He's estranged with his family, his friends don't talk to him, and he's cheap so I don't see him staying at a hotel for a month. And what about their kids?

Some earlier thoughts are here:

And @the-empress-7 made an amazing realization yesterday, that Harry’s visit will coincide with a milestone birthday and under Queen Elizabeth, the BRF recognized milestone birthdays with new honors, exclusive interviews, authorized biographies, new portraits, and new/upgraded patronages. Harry could be angling for that:

Turning now to your questions:

what do you think about Harry's planned vacation to UK for a whole month?

He’s desperate for attention and money and needs to resuscitate his royal affiliations so Meghan can keep grifting after:

The BRF ignored the Invictus 10th anniversary service.

Seeing all the cousins, even the non-working untitled ones, work an official garden party with William.

The Nigeria tour pissed everyone off.

The BRF ignored Archie’s milestone birthday.

Harry was called out by the judge for hiding and destroying evidence in the phone-hacking lawsuit (he probably wants Charles and Charles’s two courtiers named in the ruling to bail him out).

Seeing how happy and friendly the BRF was to each other at Royal Ascot.

The huge backlash from the US and American media for receiving the Pat Tillman Service ESPY. He’s licking his wounds or Meghan’s pissed at him.

Realizing the BRF doesn’t plan to give him new honors or privileges for his own milestone birthday.

Prep (aka schmoozing and sucking up) for Birmingham 2027.

Not being invited to the family remembrance events marking one year since Her Late Majesty passed. If he’s around this year, then they have no choice but to include him, he probably thinks.

Or, if the gossip is to be believed, separation and divorce from Meghan.

I don't think that will ever happen but if it does, where would he even stay?

Hotels, probably. I’m thinking something connected to Soho House that they’ll describe as “luxury hotel that can’t be disclosed for safety and security reasons.”

He's estranged with his family, his friends don't talk to him, and he's cheap so I don't see him staying at a hotel for a month.

The charities are probably paying for it.

Well Child and One Young World usually have annual events that Harry has supported that time of year. If they have events this year, he’ll probably attend and write off his travel and lodging expenses to them.

Then he’ll do a mental health thing (because William and Kate announced an upcoming mental health project yesterday) which will let him kick some of the expenses to BetterUp. Bonus points to Harry if it’s a veterans thing, because then he can make BetterUp and Invictus Games pay for it.

And then finally, there’s a good chance he could be there over Diana’s deathiversary, so a pop over to Althorp to stay a couple days with Uncle Spencer, since Harry’s about the only relative Charles isn’t feuding with.

But even if it’s not the charities, Harry still has some PR power and influence. Any hotel that’s willing to put up with his pot rot, drinking, and general slobbishness probably doesn’t mind paying him for the stay if they’ll be able to use his presence for PR. He did this all the time - he goes to stay somewhere, then a week later there’s a glowing write up in some publication about the resort or the hotel and all the amenities.

And what about their kids?

Do Harry and Meghan love their kids? Probably. Do they like their kids? Do they want to be around their kids? I don’t think so. Because the only times they talk about their kids is when they need to reset the negative attention they’re getting, emotionally blackmail Charles and William, or when other people force them to acknowledge that they have children. Which means that Harry and Meghan probably see and value their children as props and accessories more than they see them as their own little individual beings.

Harry and Meghan travel all the time away from those kids. Those kids are not used to seeing their parents. Harry disappearing for weeks on end won’t bother them one bit.

And just the usual reminder here: I don’t post on children, royal/titled or not, so if anyone wants to write in about the kids, the commentary needs to be about Harry and Meghan as parents, and I do get picky about it. Also, we acknowledge here that the kids exist so asks that say they don’t or calls them invisikids will be deleted upon receipt.

[cirqueduroyale]

Doll tour!

Back in February, "Doll collection tour" was an option on the anniversary poll. Some of you asked for the dolls but I forgot.

Anyway, I finally cleaned my office and my birthday is tomorrow, let's see them dolls (I'm not going to name all of them):

Here are the Cirque girlies I customized.

Claudette Sr. in the front. Quinn, Penelope, Red, Claudette, Cactus Queen and Flower Queen in the front with Rosalind Flower Princess in the back, and Java Chip hanging out on the bookshelf.

Be warned. It's a loooong post.

My personal desk:

Lil guy Corner:

My work desk and bookshelf:

President Barbie in the AMC Barbie movie tie-in popcorn convertible. Nothing bad has ever happened to a president riding in a convertible, has it? 🤔

Now the doll shelf:

The American Girl dolls belonged to my grandmother. Obviously, I had to take them when she passed. I change their outfits for the seasons. They're next to Halle Bailey Ariel and gymnast Staci. Gymnast Staci was my favorite doll when I was little and I happened to find one in perfect condition on ebay(for pretty cheap, too).

The Swamp Princess Honey Swamp sisters!

The Michael Jackson doll belonged to my older sisters and my niece took Sunset's head off and cut her hair...

And the corner chair:

And Last, the acrobat doll that I bought at a fair from a local artist. She's hanging up in the living room.

Thank you for looking at my dolls. I know I wasn't all that detailed, so feel free to ask about any of them if you have questions.

[crepesuzette2023]

from The Beatles Book Monthly, No 23, June 1965.

JOHN: This month, Beatle People, I would like to give you an unbiased lecture about a truly sensational new book to be published, price ten and sixpence, on 24th June by Jonathan Cape, who are very good publishers as everybody knows.

PAUL: Hey! Wait a minute. He said an informal conversation not a flippin' commercial. We're both supposed to discuss things. Like the film frinstance.

JOHN: You discuss the film, frinstance, and I'll discuss this book. It's called "A Spaniard In The Works", folks, and it would be cheap at half the price.

PAUL: Don't you mean twice the price?

JOHN: You see, Beatle People, my learned colleague agrees that it's worth twice the price. Printed throughout in two glorious colours. Brown and green. Printed on real paper too, Beatle People. You can't lose, can you?

PAUL: Don't forget what John says. 24th June. Jonathan Cape. Ten and six-pence. "A Spaniel In The Circs.”

JOHN: "A Spaniard In The Works." Good grief, you'll have a Rolling Stone rushing out a book called "A Spaniel In The Circs" and all my good work will be undone. I say again, sir, undone with a capital UN.

PAUL: As I was about to say before I was Beatled, we've finished filming "Help!". Actually the last scenes were done at Twickenham a couple of weeks back but we've been called into the studios several times since for overdubbing. That means, well, you know when you see an outdoor scene in a film and the actors are miles away from the camera. Well, they can't use microphones or you'd notice them growing out of bushes or sticking round the corner of buildings. So if there is any dialogue in scenes like this they have to put it on the soundtrack afterwards. That's called overdubbing.

JOHN: There is no overdubbing in “A Spaniard In The Works" folks. No cheating and miming like that. A Spaniard If The Works" is live, LIVE, L-I-V-E. All Live. The book was written indoors using only close-range microphones, typewriters, ciggie-packets and green and brown ballpoint pens for the drawings. Remember, folks, only "A Spaniard In The Works" comes to you completely free from skin-irritating overdub.

PAUL: In Nassau we had to keep out of the sun because the scenes we did out there come at the very end of “Help!" and it would look funny if we were all brown and tanned in the snow sequence which you see earlier on and then pale and unhealthy in the Bahamas bit. All sorts of odd people that you'll know play parts in "Help!". Roy Kinnear, Frankie Howerd. The Queen Mother was nearly in one scene—but that was unintentional. She was driving by the film location in Nassau on her way to the airport after touring Jamaica.

JOHN: Pity she didn't stop and join us.

PAUL: We had a fabulous time down on Salisbury Plain a couple of weeks back. We did four days of location filming there with tanks and troops which were on loan from the Army. Bit chilly after Nassau with lots of rain showers and a cold wind but, without giving away any production secrets, I think the Salisbury scene is one of the funniest of the lot!

JOHN: Fun, fun, fun, with them chasing us, and us chasing them, and me chasing you and where's the tea Mal.

PAUL: One of the greatest free evenings we had during the making of the film was at Obertauern in the Austrian Alps. There isn't a great deal of night life but we made some of our own. It was the assistant director's birthday and we were at the Marietta Hotel. Dick Lester found an old piano in the hotel and we all had this gear sing-along session.

JOHN: It's a new craze. Yes, folks, it's all the rage. Have your own read-along session at home! A complete do-it-yourself read-along kit comes free inside every brown and green copy of "A Spaniard In The Works" PAUL: There's not much more I can say about the film without giving away very hush-hush secrets about the story. There's going to be a Royal Premiere in London on 29th July. At the Pavilion in Piccadilly Circus where "A Hard Day's Night" opened last summer. Then the film will start going the rounds in August and there's a New York premiere a week later. We do a European tour in June but we'll be back home long before the premiere. All I can say is I hope everyone enjoys the film. In a lot of ways we're all sorry the production is finished 'cos we had a great time making it.

JOHN: Is that all you've got to say?

PAUL: Yes, I think so.

JOHN: Well, if you've quite finished, perhaps you don't mind me having a quick word with Beatle People about this book.

PAUL: Which book is that, John? it says on this ciggie paper you've just handed me.

JOHN: I don't like talking about it really. People will think l'm plugging.

PAUL: Ah, go on, John, nobody'll think that.

JOHN: No, I can't. I'm bashful.

PAUL: Please…

JOHN: All right. Read all about "The National Health Cow" and "Cassandle" (on different pages). Read all about “Silly Norman" and "Benjamin Distasteful" (both in glowing green and beatle brown). These and fourteen other unbelievable fables before your very mouth in "A Spaniard In The Works”

PAUL: Aren't there drawings too, John? you asked me to say when you stopped the tape recorder just now.

JOHN: Yes, yes. Well, sort of. One of them (in brown and green which are very artistic colours and especially cheap to print, you see) is a full-page drawing of a fat budgie. Beatle People will be interested to know that I ate nothing but SWILL, the new deodorant bird seed, for six weeks in order to get into the right mood to draw this particular picture.

PAUL: What happened?

JOHN: I fell asleep on my perch but the picture came out O.K. I drew it in two minutes flat. Flat on my face at the foot of he perch.

PAUL: And what is the title of this new book of yours, John?

JOHN: Oh, I'm so sorry. Didn't I mention it?…

[freddiemercurylegendabovelegends]

Today - May 13th, 1977 - Queen Story!

Queen played Congresscentrum, Hamburg, Germany

'A Day At The Races' Tour

🔸Record Mirror, May 21, 1977

A NIGHT at the Congress Centrum Hamburg, where escalators take you to the concert hall and the bouncers wear suits and ties.

It's been three years since Queen played Hamburg, but it's a near sell-out in a hall which looks like a giant lecture theatre with rows and rows of cushioned, spotless white seats. The stage is tiny but somehow the roadies have managed to squeeze on the batteries of lights.

It's a late start. Backstage, a giant roadie paces up and One week down like an expectant father outside the dressing room. Classical music floats gently over the audience.

Then darkness, lights, action and The Queen Machine rolls into action. Lights explode through the gloom and Mercury stands like Rudolph Nureyev.

He's dressed in a white jumpsuit and May, in wandering minstrel gear, blasts out the opening chords to 'Tie Your Mother Down'. For a guy who shows comparatively little emotion when he plays, the effect is still stunning. The number finishes with a drum solo and tarticle

g bass rising to the top of the sound mix. The Congress Centrum has great acoustics. You could have been sitting in a recording studio.

Most of the audience are caught like a fish on the end of a hook. It's the old Queen policy of 'grab 'em by the scruff of the neck and don't let go for a second'. The lights dim again, there are same tailed some taped sounds and spotlights shine out from the stage. May's knife - like guitar announces 'Ogre Battle'.

Explonding

Mercury makes an-other grand entrance in a chequered cut suit, pointing his mike stand at the audience like a gun. At the end he's lost in a mass of exploding smoke bombs. • The band's speeches are embarrassing. They always sound so self-conscious. "Thank you every-body and welcome to the party," says Freddie —like an embarrassed scoutmaster addressing his troop. It's 'White Queen' and the dynamic duo of Mercury and May are caught under criss-cross spotlights. Mercury tosses his head back as if he's in agony and sings the mystical lyrics before leaping around like a bizarre ballet dancer. Spotlights play on a crystal ball and May stands in the corner, framed in the half light like a Renaissance portrait. He takes to the catwalk at the front of the stage for a riveting solo. Considering the rapid-fire notes he's turning out, he always looks so relaxed. Mercury returns to the stage and the number taste-fully ends as he hits a high note and a solitary spotlight plays on his head and shoulders. "It's really nice to be here in Hamburg," he announces before 'Somebody To Love'. His playing misses the light opening touches of the record. The band try to make the tune more funky — maybe trying to keep the live excitement going, but it sounds cheap.

Half the German crowd are start their British Jubilee tour, ROBIN SMITH went to Germany and found that the Hamburgers were well pleased. Yes, they played a . . .

Good Old Fashioned . . singing along but the remainder keep their seats, showing no emotion. Eventually Taylor's drumming gets the crowd going. The reserve is breaking . . . May walks across to the microphone and clicks his fingers. Mercury's piano chords announce 'Killer Queen'. This time the playing is more laid back, capturing the true sensuous feel of perhaps the most subtle and skilful song Queen have ever produced. Mercury even managed to work in a line about Hamburg.

RAGTIME

The numbers followed by the gloriously ragtime 'Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy' and Mercury's voice is showing no signs of strain. In times gone by, especially at one concert at the Rainbow, he seemed to have been lisping and struggling, but no complaints this time.

The party atmosphere is continued with 'Bring Back That Leroy Brown'. May strumming away on banjo.

It's back to Queen at their most sinister with 'Death On Two Legs', Freddie spitting out the lyrics backed by cold guitar, rumbling drums and bass.

He sounds like Christopher Lee.

"Queen would like to drink a special toast to all of you here," says F'reddie. He sips champagne delicately but - tut, tut - it's not a proper champagne glass - the real thing is tulip shaped. He passes the booze down to the audience.

FRENZIED

Time for 'Brighton Rock' - frenzied riffs stab out and May indulges in some feedback before strutting around che stage. He indulges in a deluge of rising and falling notes and then the nagging riff start, again, bouncing off your eardrums.

Source article ➡️ queenconcerts.com

[the-fiction-witch]

Shut Up!

Media The Queens Gambit

Character Benny Watts

Couple Benny X Reader

Rating Smut

Kinktober Day Fifteen

Kinktober Concept Incest

Smut Incest / step sister x step brother / full sex/ raw sex/ cum inside

I made sure the place was clean or well clean enough when I heard a knock at the door, I sighed and went to open it up but I was taken back "Hey Benny" Beth smiled jumping to give me a hug "Hey, Beth!" I smiled hugging her happily letting her in "What are you doing here?" "Layover and the flights have been delayed until nine tonight, I figured I could sit in the hotel bar feeling sorry for myself or pop up and see you" she explained wondering though setting her jacket on the chair and her bag on the table "relax I'll be out of your hair by eight"

"No no it's fine it's just uhh not who I was expecting" "Oh? You expecting someone?" She chuckled turning leaning in the chair crossing her arms "Kinda" "I thought the place seemed clean, what you got your girlfriend coming over?" She joked heading to make herself a coffee "Ohh god no" "Don't keep me in suspense then" she laughed But the door knocked "Excuse me" I sighed walking as slowly as possible not really wanting to answer the damn door but I pulled it open begin faced her I just let her in without even speaking

"Hello to you too" she snapped heading inside hanging her black fur on the rack and heading inside with her red suitcases "ohh I didn't realise I'd have company" she smirked as she stood in my apartment in her knee-high black boots, black and white plaid mini skirt and white cream jumper, her thick dark hair with intense curls her hair pinned back with a small clip on each side just above her ears "Uhhh hi," Beth said rather surprised "Beth Harmon" she said offering her hand

"Y/n Watts" she smiled giving her hand a shake "No, you are not" I snapped heading across the apartment "Mom took it so I'm gonna use it" she snapped "I don't care, you're not a Watts don't use it" "I can do what I bloody well like Benjamin" "Uhh explanation please?" Beth asked "Y/n this is Beth, grandmaster and a good friend of mine" I explained "Beth this is Y/n. My…." I trailed off not wanting to say it "I'm his sister" She rolled her eyes "Step sister" I corrected "Huu he's never mentioned you" Beth spoke up "He doesn't like me" she smiled pinching my cheek as she walked across the apartment "Why would I? You've been nothing but shit to me since you turned up into my damn life" "Can you be civil for five damn minutes!" "Whatever," I sighed heading to my chair Eventually, Beth and y/n came over and the three of us sat chatting for a while even if I had to drink to even tolerate her but that's pretty much how this usually goes. "So what are you doing in New York?" "Touring a show, figured I'd be cheap and come stay in this dismal place then getting a hotel the whole time," she explained "and I promised the folks I'd check in on my stepbrother" "A show?"

"Y/n's an actress" I smirked "And you're a chess player. Folks are thrilled about that" "How exactly is this all set up?" "My dad met my mum and had me. Mum died and he got remarried" I explained "My mother met my father and had me and then my father died so my mother remarried. And then we became siblings" "Step siblings" I corrected "He's always been pouty about it," "Yeah because you just turned up and inserted yourself into my life" "You literally inserted yourself into my space" "In case it wasn't obvious we shared a bedroom" I sighed "You were an evil thing" "So we're you" We all chatted for a while until Beth had to leave for her flight, leaving me alone with y/n. "Guess you're not just a loner chess boy" she smirked going to unpack "I'm letting you stay here to be nice. don't be a dick because I am more than happy to throw you onto the streets" "No, you wouldn't" "I would" "You are such a cunt" "me! I'm not the dick here" "yes you are you've always been a dick" "You're just mad I took half your pocket money" "You broke my favourite chessboard!" "You decapitated all my stuffed animals!" "You sewed love hearts on my jeans" "You faked an allergy so we had to give my cat away" "I wasn't faking that cat made me sneeze. Because he was a huge fluffy thing and you never brushed him" "Maybe I would if I wasn't dealing with the fact you cut my pigtails, twice!"

"You waxed my pubes while I was sleeping!" "You broke my doll house!" "You just fucking turned up! I was still in a bad place after I lost my mum and you just fucking showed up! you and your mother. we'd barely buried mine and you just showed up. and I was expected to just put everything down and accept a new mum and a sister. I never wanted anything to do with you" "You think I did! Need I remind you my dad was barely buried too before I had to pack my life up and get shipped across the county, all I was told was we were moving, and when I got there I had a new dad and some jumped-up stepbrother to deal with. Don't blame me for turning up into your life, I didn't turn up I was dragged kicking and screaming" "You boo hoo precious little princess, you always were" "DO you have to be such a bastard about everything-" She yelled I was beyond angry, all I wanted to do was shut her up! tension boiling over I grabbed her face and kissed her mostly just to stop her from talking but the moment our lips touched it felt so heavenly like all the frustration melted away she pulled back and we both just stood bright red in shock "Fuck-" "Yeah…" "where did that come from?" "I have no idea"

"It uhhh it was kinda nice" "Yeah, it was. Weird But nice. I mean terrible awful and very very wrong." I explained but she grabbed my face and kissed me, I kissed her back wrapping my arms around her waist and pulling her closer until we both pulled back "It is nice" "It is, but very wrong, very very wrong, your my sister." "Stepsister" she corrected "Don't encourage me." "That's encouraging?" "Ohh shut up y/n" I smirked pulling her into a kiss and grabbing her ass squeezing it hard as we kissed she happily and eagerly kissed back rubbing her hands around my shirt, soon enough we were walking we kissed heading over to my bedroom until we stopped as her legs hit the bed so I pushed her down on my bed and climbed between her legs "This is for all the fucking years I spent in a bed next to you with you teasing the living crap out of me" "Did I?" she giggled "Don't play innocent you used to sit in your fucking bra just to tease me" "And how many times did I catch you masturbating while I was sleeping"

"Maybe I wouldn't have to if you came and took care of me" "Diddo" she smirked pulling me back to her lips heavily made out for a good while until I pulled away "We can't this is crazy-" I began but she smirked and turned on her stomach grinding her ass against me "Fuck it!" I groaned grabbing her hips and grinding hard on her I quickly undid my jeans and stroked my stiffening erection she giggled and tugged her panties down, I didn't waste any time burying myself deep inside her and started to pound fast and hard "Ughhhh fuck! You were an evil little thing, their precious little princess, I'm gonna fucking ruin you" "Ughhhh! you couldn't ruin me if you fucking tried. I remember your first girlfriend who walked out because you came in her hair" "I kept quiet about you fucking your eight-grade science teacher" "I passed didn't I!" "Yeah because you blew him under the science bench! you always were a little slut" "Like you weren't? those three girls you had in your Austin hotel that you never shut up about?" "It was a foursome there pretty rare I was allowed to get excited. I guess four people in one go isn't a lot for you is it?" "Ughhhh just shut up and fuck me, Benny!" She yelled moving back and forth in time with my thrusts we both got faster and louder she pushed herself hard against me as she squealed loudly hitting her orgasm I kept going working into her intense tightness until I hit my own burying myself as deep as possible. When I caught my breath I pulled out and lay in bed with her, "I think that helped. got the frustration out" "Yeah I think you're right" I nodded "We can't ever tell anyone about this" "I wasn't planning to" she laughs "Relax, genetically there's nothing between us we're not related by blood at all our parents got divorced we'd be nothing again" "Like that's gonna happen, too are smitten with each other and always have been" "Yeah, can't fault them for loving each other." "Fucked us up though" "No matter what you do you fuck your kids up, that's just having kids" "Yeah hence why I aint having any" "same." "Ohh don't tell them that they'll lose it they know neither of us is gonna give them grandkids" "I mean I'll give them grandkids if they want them" She smirked glancing at me "Lets not fucked the family tree up too much y/n"

[thepaperqueendom]

Ghoul HCs - Rain edition.

(I've been having so much Rain on the brain, it's not even funny any more.)

Rain is the only ghoul who truly loves rain (duh) and tends to be in a pissy mood when it's dry and sunny for long stretches of time. Luckily, with the ministry set in Sweden, the weather is usually quite changeable. When Sodo and Swiss spend their smoke break under the wide arch of the north entrance to shelter from the downpour, Rain joins them - not because he smokes, but because he'll happily stand a few feet away in the rain and get absolutely soaked (he then leaves puddles on the stone floor and gets in trouble).

Not only is he obsessed with bodies of water, he also brings an insane amount of water bottles everywhere and lets them pile up in weird places. It's an issue on tour that Rain is constantly stressed about dying of thirst (and highly dramatic about it). Sometimes he sees a stranger chugging from a huge-ass water bottle out in public and could cry out of jealousy. [he's me]

Speaking of crying, he's completely helpless around other people's tears (even though they're water). Almost as soon as someone's eyes get wet, Rain will start crying too and needs to be comforted himself.

He constantly cracks his joints. All of them, all the time - and whenever he moves, he cracks involuntarily. The other ghouls don't mind, but Papa gets the ick every time. He's thought about tying Rain up (not in a sexy way, just to make the sounds stop), but Rain can't play bass completely immobilized, can he? Also, the first time Swiss witnessed Rain pulling his own tail to crack his tail vertebrae and sighing in relief, the multi ghoul almost choked laughing.

He absolutely loves vintage clothing, it's one of his favorite human things ever. All ghouls have their distinctive styles and preferences when out of uniform, but Rain usually dresses like a mix between Peaky Blinders and 70s fashion with a few ruffly Victorian shirts thrown in. Think Ryan Ross but cool. Contrary to many people who hc Rain with blueish skin, I imagine him very pale with greyish undertones and grey eyes, so he can pull off wearing any colour, too.

I almost forgot the most important one: Rain is an avid reader. I know gamer Rain is a thing in the fandom, but reader Rain is close to my heart, and actually... why not both? His taste in books is, um, very broad. He prefers fantasy and thrillers, but doesn't mind if they're bad, you know? He's even known to enjoy the occasional cheap paperback with a scantily-clad human woman embracing a highlander type on the cover.

In general, Rain is more of a quiet type around those he doesn't know well and has a very wry kind of humour, but he can be a loud AF drama queen around his pack.

[justforbooks]

Iris Apfel was finally recognised as a great, original fashion stylist in her 80s, when the Costume Institute at the Metropolitan Museum in New York had a sudden gap in its 2005 exhibition schedule. Many curators knew Apfel, who has died aged 102, as a collector stashing away clothes, especially costume jewellery, both couture-high and street-market-low, so the institute asked to borrow some of her thousands of pieces.

When Apfel wore them herself, dozens at a time in ensembles collaged fresh daily, they had zingy pzazz, so she was invited to set up the displays. There was no publicity budget, and her name was modestly known only in the interior decor trade, yet the show, Rara Avis: Selections from the Iris Apfel Collection, became a huge success after visitors promoted it online. It toured other American museums, changing exhibits en route because Apfel wanted her stuff back so she could wear it.

Apfel’s grandfather had been a master tailor in Russia; her father, Samuel Barrel, supplied mirrors to smart decorators; her chic mother, Sadye (nee Asofsky), had a fashion shop. They lived out in rural Astoria, in the Queens borough of New York, where Iris was born.

As a child, her treat was a weekly subway trip to Manhattan to explore its shops, her favourites the junk emporia of Greenwich Village. She was short, plain and, until her teen years, plump, but she had style; and the owner of a Brooklyn department store picked her out of a crowd to tell her so. During the Depression all her family could sew, drape, glue, paint and otherwise create the look of a room, or a person, on a budget of cents – the best of educations.

She studied art history at New York University, then qualified to teach and did so briefly in Wisconsin before fleeing back to New York to work on Women’s Wear Daily. Furniture and fabrics were in short supply during and after the second world war, and Iris began to earn by sourcing antiques and textiles; if she could not find it, she could make or fake it cheaply.

In 1948 she married Carl Apfel, and they became a decorating team: he had the head for business and she the eye. Unable to find cloth appropriate to a period decor, Iris adapted a design from an old piece and had it woven in a friend’s family mill; she and Carl then set up Old World Weavers in 1952, commissioning traditional makers around the globe.

Photographs and home-movie footage from the next four decades showed Apfel, adorned with elan, haggling for one-off items in souks, flea markets and bric-a-brac shops. She is the most decorative sight in each shot, her ensembles put together with complex cadenzas atop an underlying, tailored, structure– they are like jazz – not a statement, but a conversation.

Apfel was the last of those 20th-century fashion exotics who presented themselves as installations. Although she wore a priest’s warm tunic to the White House (President Richard Nixon underheated the place), plus armfuls of cheap African bracelets and thigh-high boots, she was not an exhibitionist like the Marchesa Casati, and, with her vaudevillian comic timing, was far funnier than the imperious Vogue editor Diana Vreeland.

Also, she never ever bought full-price: her many rails and under-the-bed suitcases of couture were sale-price samples, chosen for their cut, fabric, skilled craftwork and colour dazzle (“Colour can raise the dead”). She might wear them over thrift shop pyjamas, or under a Peking Opera costume, with hawsers of necklaces atop. Money could not buy personal style, she said, prettiness withered, beauty could corrode the soul. All that really mattered was “attitude, attitude, attitude”.

Old World Weavers discreetly refurbished the White House under nine presidents, as well as grand hotels and private houses, before the Apfels sold the company in 1992. They retired to a quiet life in their apartment on Park Avenue, New York, its decor an extension of Apfel’s outfits (bad garment choices were cut up for cushions), and in a Palm Beach holiday home where the Christmas decoration collection stayed up all year round, along with cuddly toys and museum-class folk art. Clothes shopping, and the improvisation of an outfit, became Apfel’s daily ritual, as cooking might be to a gourmet.

But after the Met show, and a book, Rare Bird of Fashion (2007), Apfel was back in as much full-time employment as she could manage in her 80s and 90s (she had a hip replacement because she fell after stepping on an Oscar de la Renta gown). She was cover girl of Dazed and Confused, among many other publications, window display artist at Bergdorf Goodman, designer and design consultant – superb on eye-glasses; she wore large, owl-like, frames to stylise her aged face into a witty, unchanging, cartoon.

She took seriously her responsibilities to fashion students on her course at the University of Texas, teaching them about imagination, craft and tangible pleasures in a world of images.

Her career lasted – nothing was ever too late: in 2018, Iris Apfel: Accidental Icon, a book of memoir and sound style advice; in 2019, a contract with the model agency IMG; and last year, a beauty campaign for makeup with Ciaté London. The documentarian Albert Maysles trailed her for Iris (2014), filming this “geriatric starlet” – her term – as she dealt drolly with new high-fashion friends, or laughed at an “Iris” Halloween costume (glasses, a ton of bangles).

She watched as a storage loft of her antique treasures was listed in lots for sale, and as white-gloved assistants from museums that had begged a bequest boxed up her garments; she still had, and wore, the shoes from her wedding. All things, she said, were only on loan in this world, even to collectors. The point was to enjoy them to the full before bidding them good-bye.

Carl died in 2015.

🔔 Iris Barrel Apfel, decorator and fashion stylist, born 29 August 1921; died 1 March 2024

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at Just for Books…?

[jqmalikhsgib]

bloom

twelve

eddie excitedly runs into his house. he runs towards his bedroom. he sees yn playing with lily and lunaria. he gives them both sloppy kisses on the cheeks before kissing his fiancé passionately.

yn giggles before pulling away. he gently caresses her face before kissing her once more.

“why are you all excited?”

eddie grins wildly as he shows her their bank statement. her eyes widened at the huge number she was seeing. it wasn’t a million dollars but nearly enough.

“what?! i—”

“the money from the tour came in today, babe! we’re finally living large.” eddie states.

“holy, shit! eddie, i never seen that many zeros in my life.”

“i know! fuck, babe. we can finally live the life we deserve. i can give you and the kids anything. anything! finally treat you like the queen you are.” eddie shakes his head in disbelief.

yn shakes her head as she kisses her fiancé gently. “you know i couldn’t care less about money, eds. you give me and the children more than enough. you’re a great fiancé and an even better father.”

“i know, baby. i know you don’t care about where i come from or about my shitty childhood or any of that bullshit. but this is something ive always wanted. to live my dream and provide for my whole family. fuck, im excited! what should we do first? go to an amusement park? go shopping? buy a new car? maybe five?”

“eddie, slow down! you’re gonna give yourself a heart attack.”

“im just so fucking pumped, babe! i wanna spend the money any way you wanna.”

yn gently bites her bottom lip with a small smile. eddie eyes her suspiciously.

“what?”

“you really wanna make me happy? right now with the money?”

eddie nods.

“lets have a small wedding. we can use steve’s and nancy’s backyard. we can invite everyone important in our lives.”

“baby, i thought you wanted a big wedding?”

yn shakes her head. “eddie, i wanted that when we first started dating. we’re older now, have six kids, and different dreams than before. or at least i do. i just want you, our kids, our friends, and our family. that’s it. the money can be used to buy me a wedding dress and you an actual suit. we can get the kids dressed up, buy some cheap flowers, some food, and a cake. we can get married next weekend. come on eds! i just wanna be your wife already.”

eddie smiles hugely before nodding. yn squeals. she kisses eddie quietly before calling nancy to get everything arranged.

“you hear that babies? mamma and daddy are getting married next weekend.”

“do we dress up, daddy?” lily whispers.

eddie hums as his daughters clap their hands happily.

a week goes by and yn looks in the mirror nervously. she looked absolutely stunning in her wedding gown. yn still couldn’t believe she was finally gonna marry the man she fell in love with and started a beautiful family with.

finally she can officially take his last name. yn hears a knock on the door before it opens. she smiles when she sees her dad.

“wow! you look amazing, princess.”

yn turns to look at her father. “thanks, dad.”

“you know, when i adopted you you were so young and fragile. you were scared of me not loving you or hurting you. you remember what i told you, baby?”

yn eyes begins to water. “you told me that you’d always care, protect, love, and cherish me. you told me you’d never let anyone hurt me again.”

“that’s correct! and i meant that, baby. now my little girl is all grown up and she’s about to me married to someone who loves her half as much as i do.”

yn hugs her father tightly. “i love you, dad!”

hopper hugs his daughter back. they wipe their eyes as they hear the music start to play.

“you ready to get married?”

yn takes a deep breath as she latches her arm with her fathers.

yn and eddie were dancing while they laugh at their kids dance as well.

eddie pulls his face back as he looks into his wife’s eyes.

“god, i still can’t believe we’re married.” eddie whispers.

yn smiles. she kisses eddie gently as he twirls her. “im so happy, eds! i loved every second of today. it was so beautiful.”

“yeah! thanks to the harringtons big backyard.”

“i love our yard too, babe. it’s small but it’s ours.”

“ive been thinking about that actually. i think its time we move out of the trailer. steve sent me his realtor information. we can’t leave hawkins just yet, but we do have enough to have our own home here. maybe a few blocks away from nance and steve’s place. plus the kids could have their own room. or at least have two sharing a room for now. what do you say?”

yn hums.

“i say, let’s focus on right now, talk about that later, and head to our honeymoon that your uncle and my father have paid for in vegas!”

“vegas?”

“mhm! they got us a nice suite and offered to take the kids. nancy and steve even said they’ll take them off their hands if they need to. you know they love kids running around. said they wouldn’t mind having a house full of kids.”

eddie laughs. he spots steve gathering up his own six kids as well as his six.

“i don’t know. twelve kids seems a lot for steve.” eddie jokes. eddie knows steve can handle a house full of children. he volunteered at the school occasionally and handled more than twelve before.

“we’ll be all alone, no children interrupting us, we can be as quiet or as long as we want.”

eddie smirks.

“maybe try for a seventh munson?” eddie asked.

yn kisses him passionately. “whatever my husband wants.”

the newly wed couple continue to dance.

[steddieas-shegoes]

meet your new best friend

for @strangerthingsocweek prompt 'party time'

rated t | 1,612 words | cw: mild language | tags: modern au, future fic, the party, dustin/erica getting married, marriage proposal

💍💍💍💍💍💍💍💍💍💍💍💍

“So you were friends with them when they were children?” Meg asked everyone in the room.

“I was their babysitter technically. And then they just kinda became friends,” Steve said. “We went through a lot together.”

Meg shared a look with Robin. This was the thing they weren’t allowed to talk about, then.

“Okay. And they had to plan this wedding the day after your biggest show of the tour?” Meg asked. “They can’t move it out an extra day?”

“They’ve had this booked for longer than we’ve had the tour dates. When they tried to move it, the venue threatened to cancel entirely,” Eddie said.

“And I’m guessing another venue is out of the question.”

“Bingo,” Robin said. “If we rent a private plane, we can all get ready on the flight over. We’d land with time to spare, even.”

“You guys do understand this is a big ask. A private plane isn’t cheap, and this is for a personal matter. The publicity team will have to explain why the hell you guys are using a private plane.” Meg sighed. “Why am I even trying to change your minds?”

“You’ll love Erica. She’s a blast,” Gareth smirked.

“That feels like sarcasm. What have I told you about using sarcasm?” Meg pulled her phone from her pocket and sent a text to the only person who wouldn’t give her an immediate no. “So Dustin and Erica are your favorites or what?”

“We don’t have favorites,” Robin said before getting interrupted by Steve.

“Yes. And Eddie and I are both his best men, so we have to be there.”

“I don’t understand why all of you are going,” Meg said as she typed furiously on her phone.

“Gareth’s gonna be the flower girl,” Eddie said, alarmingly serious.

Meg looked up and blinked at Gareth’s very serious face. “You’re joking. You’re fucking with me.”

“Why would we joke about that?” Gareth asked.

“Because you guys joke about everything. You choose this to be serious about?”

Gareth shrugged.

******

They were not, in fact, joking.

Gareth was wearing a suit, but had a tiara on his head as he walked down the aisle with a basket of rose petals, sprinkling them every foot or so.

Meg watched from a middle row, Robin already in tears next to her.

“I cannot actually believe this,” she whispered.

Robin smacked her arm. “Erica bonded with Gareth once Eddie, Jeff, and Freak all graduated. This is important for them.”

Meg rolled her eyes, but smiled when she saw a small boy start walking down the aisle whispering to himself as he carried a box in his hands carefully.

“That’s Lucas and Max’s son. He just turned four and takes this job very serious,” Robin supplied without Meg even having to ask.

“And Lucas is Erica’s older brother?”

“And one of Dustin’s best friends.”

“That must be…awkward.”

Before Robin could respond, the music started and Erica was standing at the beginning of the aisle with her father.

She was beautiful, wearing a ballgown fit for a princess, but with a presence fit for a queen.

Everyone was crying.

Meg turned to look at the guys and saw them all wiping tears themselves. Steve was the worst about it, sniffling loud enough for almost everyone to hear. But it seemed like Erica’s presence was enough of a distraction that no one was bothering to stare at him.

As she walked down the aisle, the photographer snapped pictures from multiple angles while trying to stay out of the way. They were good at it, and Meg leaned over to make a comment when Robin smirked.

“That’s Jonathan, Nancy’s ex-boyfriend. He’s good, right?”

Meg looked at Robin, who had insisted on wearing a sundress for the wedding, her hair wavy from the braids she’d slept in last night to prepare. She was never one for a lot of makeup, but she’d still used some lipstick and mascara for today, and her blue eyes seemed brighter because of it.

She was always beautiful, but today she was glowing.

“Do you think he’d do our wedding?” Meg whispered.

Robin was still staring at Erica as she made it to the front. “Hm?”

“Jonathan. Do you think he’d be willing to do our wedding?”

Robin’s eyes shot to hers. She let out a strangled squeak, which drew attention from the people in front of them and next to Meg.

Meg whispered an apology on her behalf and then everyone sat so the ceremony could start.

“Did you seriously just ask me to marry you at Erica and Dustin’s wedding ceremony?” Robin hissed out of the side of her mouth.

“Not in so many words, but kind of.”

“I almost want to say no just because you couldn’t wait until the reception,” Robin was squeezing her knee so hard, she was certain she’d have fingerprint bruises on her skin.

“But you’re saying yes,” Meg smiled.

“I’m saying yes and to not even look at me until Erica and Dustin have said I do because I will ruin this wedding with my tears,” Robin said before letting go of Meg’s leg and folding her hands in her own lap.

Meg mirrored her, mostly so she wouldn’t lean over and kiss Robin until neither of them could breathe.

As she watched the ceremony, she thought about what it will be like to be sharing vows with Robin, while all their loved ones got to witness how much they loved each other. It hadn’t even really occurred to her how much she wanted that until she’d asked Robin about Jonathan being their photographer.

But now that it was out there, she realized she’d actually been thinking about it for a while, maybe longer than she should have been.

She couldn’t focus on the ceremony, but she knew it had to be perfect because there wasn’t a dry eye in the place.

******

The reception was surprisingly casual after the elegance of the ceremony. Meg immediately ran to the open bar for a rum and coke and grabbed Robin her usual white russian with chocolate syrup drizzled in the glass, not mixed in.

Robin was standing with Nancy and Jeff at a table already, laughing and relaxing into the evening.

Meg came over to hand Robin her drink. Robin took it and chugged it.

Nancy cleared her throat. “Everything okay, Robin?”

“Mhm. I’m great. Meg proposed to me during the ceremony so I felt that was deserved,” Robin said casually.

Nancy coughed. “I’m sorry, what?”

“I sort of accidentally proposed. And Robin said yes even though she wanted to kill me. Which really just kinda seems fitting for our entire relationship,” Meg said.

“Oh my god!” Jeff cheered. “This is amazing! I won the bet.”

“Bet?” Robin glared at him. “What bet?”

“We all had a bet going for who would propose first and when and I said Meg would propose by tomorrow.”

“Unbelievable.”

“Everyone welcome, Mr. Dustin Henderson and Mrs. Erica Sinclair-Henderson!” The room went wild and the discussion was dropped, but Meg knew it would be brought up again later.

The bride and groom made their rounds as everyone settled with drinks and appetizers were brought out. When they made it to Meg’s table, Dustin pulled her and Robin into a hug.

“So glad you could come! Gareth said it would be a close call. Thanks for making it happen,” Dustin said. “This is my wife, Erica.”

Erica rolled her eyes. “He’s said it about 84 times since we stepped into this room.”

“And I’ll say it 84 more, honey,” Dustin teased, pinching her side. “You seen Steve since we all came in here? He owes me a beer.”

“It’s an open bar,” Meg said, monotone.

“Oh, I like her,” Erica said. She reached out a hand to shake Meg’s. “You’re Robin’s girlfriend I’ve heard so much about.”

“Well, as of an hour ago, I’m her fiance.”

“Oh?” Erica glanced over at Robin, who was gesturing wildly towards where Steve had last been seen while Dustin rambled about something. “Bold choice to propose at a wedding.”

“It wasn’t on purpose.”

“Even better. Come on, I need a drink before I finish making the rounds. I’m leaving the worst for last,” Erica tugged on Meg’s arm. “Tell me all about how you keep those idiots from doing stupid shit all the time. They never give me the good stuff.”

“Oh that’s because they’re embarrassed. I can make them do just about anything and they hate it,” Meg laughed. “Watch.” She nodded towards Gareth. “Gareth Emerson, is that a beer in your hand?”

Gareth immediately hid the beer behind his back.

“No!”

Meg turned to Erica with a smirk. “There isn’t even a no drinking rule for them at this wedding.”

“As you were!” Meg called to him.

Erica’s eyes were wide as she looked at Meg. “You’re the coolest person at this wedding besides me. I’m definitely more impressive, though. Watch.”

Erica’s face fell from the smile she’d had to something bordering on murderous.

“Gareth!” Gareth dropped his beer. “Why are there no flowers at my table?”

“I didn’t know you wanted them!” Gareth replied.

“So now that you do, you should probably go put the petals from your basket in there.”

“Yep!”

Gareth rushed to do it and Erica turned to Meg with a smile. “I don’t know how it still works. I haven’t even been demanding like that since before they got famous.”

“You and I could do amazing things together,” Meg said.

Erica wrapped her arm around Meg and started leading her the rest of the way to the bar. “Oh, we have so much to talk about.”

[neopolitangumdrops]

I'm gonna be doing lineup art of my ice cream ocs to get something flowing for my original story idea for them!

Dulce de Leche - Club singer; genres are most likely jazz, soul and r&b; bilingual in English and Spanish, even when she sings

Vanilla (Soft Serve) - Traveler and perfect personal tour guide; aesthetic based entirely off the 1940s, even has a transatlantic accent

Mint Chocolate Chip - Disco Queen who lives life to the fullest; aesthetic is entirely 1970's based

Rum Raisin - Business Woman, most likely manages a casino; has a serious demeanor and always has a glass of rum in her hand; has some 1930's themes

Rocky Road - Not sure yet what her occupation is, but she's classy and likes dancing; she's very close to Mint; aesthetic is entirely 1920's based

Neapolitan - Most likely a political figure, but in a smaller position such as a mayor; is sweet and has a thick German accent; aesthetic is based off the 1900's

Carrd | Cheap Commissions Open

[grits-galraisedinthesouth]

Worldwide Privacy Tour Part 2, it seems, is well underway.

"Yes, the night was pure Meghan Markle: A manufactured build-up of anticipation, a highly dramatic entrance afforded no other actual activist — Meghan climbed on stage to the Alicia Keys she-ro anthem ‘Girl on Fire’ — and then... a whole lot of nothing...This crowd was checking their watches."

"If anything, as the night dragged on and the event slipped an hour behind schedule – a sudden break announced so we could finally have dinner – the crowd bristled...Notably, not one person I spoke to nor one speaker or honoree mentioned Meghan. Not one said how exciting it was to have her there. Not one expressed the slightest curiosity at what she’d have to say."

"And this image, our renegade duchess without a palace-worthy advance team to prevent such cheap optics as the Hertz hiccup, set the tone for the evening: Fatuous, irrelevant, high on its own self-regard, all sense of purpose lost. Gloria Steinem, once the face of women’s rights, reduced to star-f***ery. It was a bizarre night."

MAUREEN CALLAHAN: Meghan's word-salad Manhattan gala appearance

She so badly wants to be the Queen of Hearts.

But, as she arrived on Tuesday night, making her grand entrance in Midtown Manhattan, sauntering past that rental-car backdrop, it was more like the Queen of Hertz.

Of course, as the world is now all too aware, Meghan Markle capped off winning a meaningless award with what we’re told was a ‘near catastrophic’, ‘two-hour’ car chase through the streets of Manhattan.

Yes, according to a spokesperson, Meghan, along with hapless Harry and mom Doria, were the subjects of a wild, impassioned hunt by the paparazzi.

Some sympathetic commentators have already made the gruesome comparisons to Princess Diana’s tragic final fate.

But to echo the statements made by New York City’s own mayor Eric Adams and the police department: Perhaps it didn’t quite happen the way it was painted.

Recollections may vary.

Naturally, their mouthpiece Omid Scobie is whining that no one from the Palace has yet reached out.

Wonder why?

One also wonders what Gloria Steinem, the 89-year-old feminist icon who chose to honor Meghan as a ‘Woman of Vision’ at Tuesday night’s Ms. Foundation Gala, must be thinking now.

After all, the car ‘chase’ debacle soon stole all the thunder from her event, which I was lucky enough to witness first-hand.

Now, it was hardly the red carpet one might expect. Hardly the pomp and circumstance of, say, a coronation.

Yet Meghan forged ahead as she always does, as if this were her crowning moment, sheathed in gold as if to symbolize a crown.

Or an Oscar statuette.

Same difference, really, if your only goal is fame. That’s our Meghan, none too subtle as ever, literally going for the gold as Harry and Doria took their positions three steps behind.

Harry may be a prince of the blood, but never forget — Meghan is The Star. Her Norma Desmond-ing is among the great spectacles of our modern age.

And this image, our renegade duchess without a palace-worthy advance team to prevent such cheap optics as the Hertz hiccup, set the tone for the evening: Fatuous, irrelevant, high on its own self-regard, all sense of purpose lost. Gloria Steinem, once the face of women’s rights, reduced to star-f***ery. It was a bizarre night.

Upon entering the Zeigfeld Ballroom, guests were asked whether they were ‘VIP’ — seems even feminist movements have their echelons — and turfed to the lobby.

My $1,500 entry-level ticket got me a hard seat with a front-row view of coat check.

After ten minutes, circumstances having changed inexplicably, the riff-raff were allowed up to the second floor.

Here were two open bars serving top-shelf liquor and the shock of post-pandemic dress code slovenliness. One unkempt guest was wearing sparkly Birkenstock sandals and a black stretchy minidress under a pink puffer jacket.

These were the VIPs?

The only recognizable person I saw was Peloton instructor Ally Love, and that’s saying something. Where were the stars? Where were the notables of the movement? The Malalas? The Fondas? The Beyoncés?

Perhaps no one was meant to outshine Meghan. Only one feminist icon was going to enter via rental car office!

Down in the ballroom, the plated salads on our banquet tables were ready waiting for us – dry, unsightly, stringy greens that resembled nothing so much as regurgitated hairballs. Notably, not one person I spoke to nor one speaker or honoree mentioned Meghan.

Not one said how exciting it was to have her there. Not one expressed the slightest curiosity at what she’d have to say.

If anything, as the night dragged on and the event slipped an hour behind schedule – a sudden break announced so we could finally have dinner – the crowd bristled.

It says something when a table of size-6 women tear into their heavily glazed steak and buttery mashed potatoes with abandon.

Yes, the night was pure Meghan Markle: A manufactured build-up of anticipation, a highly dramatic entrance afforded no other actual activist — Meghan climbed on stage to the Alicia Keys she-ro anthem ‘Girl on Fire’ — and then... a whole lot of nothing.

Verbiage and word salad that were content-free, except when speaking on her favorite subject: herself.

Here, in real time, we observed Meghan’s inability to read a room. She thanked the ‘other honorees’ without naming them.

‘Congratulations,’ she said, ‘and frankly, well deserved.’

It was all so smug and supercilious, this glorified podcaster telling these boots-on-the-ground activists — no matter what one thinks of their politics — that they had, in fact, earned their place on the same stage as the great Meghan Markle. That ‘frankly’ was so typical. It was meant to redound to Meghan’s benefit, as the lone wolf daring to speak the unspeakable.

There was the cringe-inducing humblebrag, calling her new friend Gloria ‘Glo’.

It brought to mind the forced intimacy of meeting Kate Middleton barefoot and insisting that the pair share lip gloss.

It's 'Glo' to Meghan, but Meghan is 'Duchess' to us.

‘We all bear witness,’ Meghan continued of her fellow honorees, ‘to you standing in elegance and the power of your strength.’

Huh?

This crowd was not convinced. This crowd was checking their watches. There were trains to catch, children to kiss goodnight. Alas, we were stuck with the vapidity of La Markle.

Her speech didn’t even deliver fresh content! She repeated the story, as told on her podcast, of poor little Meghan coming home from school to her TV dinner, cat collars and copies of Ms. Magazine strewn about courtesy of her mother — even though it’s well-documented that her father primarily raised her.

‘Having these pages in our home,’ she went on, ‘. . . signaled to me that there was so much more than the dolled-up covers and those images that you would see on the grocery store covers. It signaled to me that substance mattered.’

Says the former D-list actress and former briefcase game-show girl who used her looks to get ahead. Who has posed for those very same magazine covers.This warmed-over speech, less heated than our steaks, was Meghan’s greatest hits:

‘Change is just one action away.’

‘You can be the visionary of your own life.’

‘Daily acts of service, in kindness, in advocacy, in grace and in fairness.’

‘The imprints that were forged in my mind — I can now connect the dots in a much better way to understand how I became a young feminist and evolved into a grown activist.’

A feminist who, let us not forget, has publicly demonized her famous sister-in-law — ‘Waity Katie’ to Oprah and an audience of millions.

Kate made me cry! WAAAGH!

In truth, Meghan's a self-identified 'grown activist' who has done nothing. The pontification, her sing-song-y cadence as she luxuriated in her own praise, was as insufferable as it was revealing.

‘Ms.’ she said, ‘was formative in [my] cocooning. It piqued my curiosity, and it became the chrysalis for the woman that I would become and that I am today.’

Right: The woman who vilified the institution headed-up by Queen Elizabeth II in her final years. The woman who heavily alleged institutional racism until her husband finally backed away from that terrible smear.

A woman with no substance and no accomplishments as a feminist. A woman who is still trying to one-up the royals, even from a car-park adjacent ballroom with no red carpet. Meghan is the personification of Ms. as an organization that has lost its way.

Indeed, most of the night was spent advocating not for women but for trans rights and Critical Race Theory.

‘Abortion is racist,’ we were told.

Beware the ‘the white supremacist patriarchal system.’

Yes, even the Ms. Foundation – established for biological women out of a deep, and enduring, necessity – has been subsumed by men who identify as women.

How fitting then that the night was overshadowed by a grasping phony whose empty platitudes on stage failed to make headlines, whose spokesperson told a wild story of a high-stakes car chase.

Pity Meghan, but recognize her strength. Admire her, but never laugh at her. And never, ever question her veracity.

Worldwide Privacy Tour Part 2, it seems, is well underway.

[webslingingslasher]

ever since I heard our queen taylor sing "spiderboy, king of thieves,..." I just think about how funny it would be if you were to go to the eras tour with peter and you made him dress up as spiderman and you as houdini or viceversa.

he would be dying on the inside trying not to seem too amused and you would be dying but literally cause I mean it's a taylor swift concert

-🧿

begging peter to dress as spider-man for halloween and he does (cheap costume suit) but trouble keeps looking at him and telling him 'but it looks so natural on you! are you sure you're not spider-man?'

and peter is SWEATING

[dollarbin]

Dollar Bin # 13:

The Mountain Goats' Sweden

Here's a (Mostly) True story:

In the fall of 1995, John Darnielle, the founder, songwriter, frontman (and, occasionally, the sole member) of The Mountain Goats taught me how to cook.

As a second year student at Pomona College I took the one on-campus job no one else wanted: fast food line cook. No one wanted the job because it required actual labor; every other on-campus job involved sitting at a desk in a library, museum, gym or office while doing your homework. But I was ready to heat oil, and labor. I was ready to eat as much free ice cream as I could in-between orders.

The job was an odd choice for a vegetarian like me at the time: I spent the first hour of every shift slicing enough partially thawed, homogenized meat for the full day of orders ahead; once both of my hands were entirely numb from the meat's cold it was time to drink a giant vat of free Sprite and then move on to other prep tasks. Slice the tomatoes. Fire up the grill. Then, once the place opened, I'd spend the rest of my shift burning all that sliced meat to a crisp for altered and/or indifferent fellow college students.

John Darnielle trained me. He'd already released two records at that point, but I had no idea who the hell he was. My ignorance drove him nuts.

By the time he arrived each day my hands were already numb and my personally selected music was already on the stereo system. In the fall of 95 that meant a heavy rotation of Guided By Voices' Alien Lanes, Uncle Tupelo records and Yo La Tengo's Electr-O-Pura. I'd put on Tom Waits' The Black Rider at closing time so everyone would go the hell home; that always cleared the room.

But I never played The Mountain Goats; I'd never even heard of them. Throughout that fall I worked alongside a blossoming rock star. And I had no clue whatsoever.

John was the first and only friend I've ever had who wore a leather jacket. He was also ridiculously old for an undergraduate; we're talking mid-to-late-twenties. Every day he'd arrive, compliment my taste in music, trade his jacket for a weathered apron and then look at me earnestly. It was weird. I saw that he wanted me to say something, that he wanted me to know something. Desperately. But I had no idea what the hell it was.

After a bit he'd sigh and begin the day's training. Here's how to flip 'em kid; here's how to fire up that grill.

Then, at some point, he just broke down and told me: he knew James McNew; he had a record deal; he was just back from a tour of Germany, where people were crazy for any kind of American music; he was starting to make some real money (hence the leather jacket). He thought I'd like his music.

At that point I'm afraid I made the situation much, much worse. I laughed at John Darnielle and accused him of lying.

"Yeah right, dude. You're a rock star. And I'm the queen of England."

He listened. He paused. Then he shut down the register and said we needed to go outside. And so we went. College kids stood about, confused. Who was gonna get them their curly fries if the kid in The Dead t-shirt and the weird old guy took a break?

I remember, like yesterday, standing next to him in the sun. He'd taken off his apron and put his leather jacket back on. The vibe was very weird.

"Look, I'm not joking," he said. "My band used to play shows here on campus, but we're just too big for that now. Go to Rhino records; you're a vinyl guy, right? They've got my latest album on vinyl for like 7 bucks."

(Remember: this was the secret golden age of vinyl: CDs cost $12-15 and records of the same thing cost $7-12. And we all thought we needed to spend more for the CDs! If I had a time machine, I would not go back and see who killed JFK; rather, I'd spend a sweet summer with Jane Austen and then propose marriage to her, then I'd travel to 1969 to see Neil and Crazy Horse live, THEN I'd go back to 95 and buy everything I could grab on vinyl CHEAP.)

Okay, back to John Darnielle in 95: "Look: my new record is called Sweden," he said. "Only it has absolutely nothing to do with Sweden. That's the joke. Listen to it; you'll know it's me right away. I sing like I talk. People think we have like 25 members in the band, but it's really just me and this girl who plays bass. I lie in my songs, all the time. But I'm not lying to you."

And then he just walked off. In the middle of his shift! I was left to man the counter on my own. Fries were ordered; burgers were burned to a fabulous crisp. And The Black Rider came on way early. I had something I needed to do.

As soon as the quitting bell rang I hopped on my bike and road straight to the record store. As usual, the counter was manned by the angriest guy in the whole world. His name was probably Haemon, and he always sneered at whatever I was buying. This was years before High Fidelity, but he was already auditioning for Jack Black's part. The dude just hated me. I remember buying a Sonic Youth Tee in there one time. He ripped me apart while ringing me up. Is it any wonder that a few years later we all decided to shop on Amazon?

Anyway, by the time I got to the store, I'd pretty much decided John Darnielle was for real. And quite quickly I found his record, walked it to the counter, handed it over guiltily (Rhino Records had their workers stand behind a counter that was a full two feet higher than the sales floor so as to allow Jack Black Sr. behind the counter, who was tall to begin with, maximum superiority over his pathetic customers), and then, for the first and only time, the guy did not give me a hard time.

"Well, well, well," he said. "You're finally buying something of value. Poser."

(Remember when we all called each other "poser"? Now we all call each other unprintable things. Ah, the 90's...)

Well, you can see where this is going. The Mountain Goats were indeed that guy John from my day job. His singing was ridiculous, like Lou Reed if he was a passionate player of Magic, The Gathering. His melodies were infectious, like Bob Pollard if he was earnest, not drunk. His lyrics were cute and bizarre, like Dylan if he actually attended college, then managed to double major in Classics and English. The recording process was infantile, like me in the kitchen. Or rather, like me in life.

It was all precious. It was all awesome.

I returned to work a day or six later, eager to see my new friend John and tell him all about it. He was a genius! He was Robyn Hitchcock meets Johnathan Richman; he was Thomas Pynchon with a guitar; he was my new hero.

And then, I never saw him again. That moment in the sun turned out to be the last moment we ever spent together. I guess he went and got a life.

Hello out there, John! It's 28 years later and your recent publicity pics make you look, in the words of one of this blogs' 40+ (wow!) readers, like an alternative high school teacher: he sees you; he respects your pronouns. Guess what, John? That's a better description of me than you these days. You're playing the Belly Up this fall. I'm not even playing Magic, The Gathering.

So go, take a listen to Sweden! It's great. Check out the hilarious T.S. Eliot intro to I Wonder Where Our Love Has Gone. Enjoy the alternative Swedish titles for every song. Be reminded of how Hercules died: consumed by an article of his own clothing. Flip to the B Side and enjoy a nice coconut cream pie.

And while you are listening, picture an earnest and very talented guy in a leather jacket in 1995, patiently teaching a very young and hopeful kid how to flip burgers and fry up the grill. See him. See me. We're both dreaming of incredible futures: incredible futures that came true.

Happy Friday everyone! And John, while I've got you here: thanks for being patient and nice to me way back then. I'm sorry I needed you to introduce me to your music. Please tell Stephen Stills he sucks.

[freddiemercurylegendabovelegends]

Today, on 8th February, 1976 - Queen Story!

New York, NY, USA, Beacon Theater

'A Night At The Opera Tour'

🔸Freddie Mercury was taking tea on the 47th floor of his New York hotel. In his suite. The Royal suite, of course. It was the morning after yet another triumph for Queen - that brilliant and highly original British rock band built around the outrageous ideas and stage presence of the exotic Mr.

Mercury. They had played their fourth concert in as many nights at the battered but fashionable Beacon Theatre, and wvith an album and a single in the American charts, they were riding high.

Warm tea was permitted to slide down Mr. Mercury's regal throat as he prodded gingerly at some nasty looking bruises on the side of his neck.

He explained, My very promising pop career nearly came to an untimely end last night. Two young girls outside the theatre decided to claim my scarf as a souvenir. They quite forgot that it was wrapped around my neck at the time, and they very nearly strangled me. I'm sure Her Majesty doesn't have to put up with this sort of thing. But then, she doesn't have anything in the charts at the moment does she?"

He is a wicked man, Mr. Mercury.

He is also everything that a rock idol is supposed to be, and New York has been quick to recognise this. Like Mick Jagger, Freddie has off-beat good looks. Jagger has those pneumatic lips, and Freddie has the most out- spoken set of teeth ever to have found their way on to a pop fan's wall. He also enjoys the lifestyle of a true superstar - he lives out our fantasies for us far more effectively than we could ever manage to do for our- selves. Even if we had his kind of money.

His dress sense is sensational. He seldom looks less than spectacular, and he is not the sort of chap who believes in going unnoticed. Satin is his favourite fabric, with silk coming a close second. And he loves those loose, floppy, Japanese-style jackets.

But as he is quick to point out, There is a quiet side to me too, you know.

My home life is very civilised, and I hardly ever dress up to watch the tele- vision. Unless I am watching a Royal occasion of course. Then, my dear, it's on with the tiara and the emine ..

the LOT!

But Freddie felt there were better things to do in the city of New York than sit around sipping tea and discussing sartorial matters. He in- vited photographer Terry 0ʻNeill and me to join him on a shopping expedition, and it seemed a reason- able idea. Freddie was his casual self in short fur coat, white satin slacks, white clogs and silver snake bracelet.

The problems we encountered were little ones. Like young girls sobbing softly outside the door of a shoe shop while Freddie sought some- thing for the regal feet inside. And then there was the confusion of the young lady in Bloomingdale's depart- ment store who began to give Freddie a free manicure, only to discover that the nails on his left hand were already painted with black lacquer.

Freddie said, I love America. But l cant imagine ever coming here to live.

Our music is successful over here because it is so distinctively English.

We must keep it that way. I have just bought a new house in London, and an enormous car that looks like a boat on wheels. I could never leave all that.

And I have far too much fun ever to worry about a silly little thing like tax.

I know l'm terribly extravagant.

I always have been. My life these days is one perpetual spending spree. So I suppose l am the sort of person who needs to find ways of reducing tax.

But it's all such a bore. Why don't you buy a pair of these beautiful glitter shoes? They 're outrageous. And they 're cheap. And they re much more interesting than tax, don't you think?

I did think so. But I decided against buying the lurid footwear. You have to be a star to wear shoes like that.

Somebody rather like Freddie Mercury, in fact.