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gay gay homosexual gay

Ig. _ferchuup_

TT. ferchuuuppp

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“their rivalry made them better” agreed but it also made them worse. it’s important that it made them worse

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Went to a musical evening at the local coffeeshop and there was this boomer guy with a guitar and he was like "this Beatles song will liven everyone up" and then this mf played All My Loving 😭

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ONE DAY IN THE LIFE OF THE GROUCHO CLUB, excerpt from "More Fool Me. A Memoir" by Stephen Fry

So, back to the Groucho. (…)

Let us say it is a sunny autumn afternoon in the early 1990s. (…) I take my post-luncheon brandy to the bar. A pair of adorably cute boys are sitting there, rhythmically drumming the bar-rail with their feet and looking nervously about them. I estimate that they are in their mid-twenties.

I have always felt that the Groucho should be a club within the most sociable meaning of the act and that open friendliness ought to be a very part of its nature. People should be made to feel welcome and at home, not snubbed or avoided. Which is not to say that they should be interrupted or have their conversations crashed. It seems to me that these two young men are certainly in need of a solacing word or two. ‘Hello,’ I say, slipping on to a stool next to them. They nod and smile. ‘You look as if you are a little bewildered?’ ‘Well,’ says one of them, who had charming mousy hair, ‘it’s the Groucho Club. You hear things …’ ‘Goodness,’ say I. ‘What sort of things?’ ‘That it’s a bit, you know …’ says the other, who has perfectly black hair and the deepest brown eyes, ‘not for the likes of us.’ ‘Oh now, pish,’ I reply. ‘You look like just the kind of young bright people that the Groucho would most welcome. Tell me, what do you do?’ ‘We’re musicians,’ says the mousy-haired one with just a hint of endearing mockney. ‘Ah, well then. You’re exactly the kind of members the club needs. I’ll make sure your candidacies are fast-tracked. Don’t you move a muscle. I’ll be right back.’ I nip to the front desk and ask – Lily would it have been? – to give me a couple of membership forms. I return, brandishing them. ‘Let’s fill these in then,’ I say. ‘Hm. “Profession?” … Musicians. “Address?” … I’ll leave you to fill those in, along with telephone numbers. “Proposer?” … I’ll sign that. “Seconder?” …’ I scan the bar area. ‘Tim!’ I call to an old friend and Groucho regular. ‘Come and second these two splendid fellows. They’re called … sorry, I’m afraid I don’t know your names …’ ‘Alex,’ says the one with the black hair and brown, brown eyes. ‘Damon,’ says the one with the mousy hair and, now that I look more closely, wonderfully blue, blue eyes. ‘And they’re musicians!’ I tell Tim. Tim takes the form and signs. ‘Are you currently in work, or do you have a band or something?’ I inquire of the pair. ‘Stephen,’ says Tim, ‘this is Damon Albarn and Alex James. They are Blur.’ This is not very helpful to me. ‘Park Life?’ ‘It’s OK,’ says the dark-haired one called Alex, extending his hand to be shaken. ‘Big fan.’ Hands are shaken, and drinks ordered all round. I leave the filled-in proposal forms with the front desk (…) The afternoon takes shape. Damon has to leave, but meanwhile Keith Allen has arrived. Keith has entered in bonhomous mood. He already knows Alex James. In fact they are to go on and have a long and productive friendship. Aside from anything else, they give the world Fat Les and the hit single ‘Vindaloo’, for which the world will always be dizzy with gratitude. (���) There is a strange stumbling noise on the stairs. Up comes a round-faced, shaggy-eyebrowed young man. ‘You’re all fucking wankers,’ he says. ‘And you …’ he points at Alex. ‘Where’s that shithead All Bran?’ Alex smiles dozily. ‘Fuck you all. You can’t play for fucking toffee.’ This strange interloper grabs my cue. ‘And you,’ he says to me, ‘you are a poncey tosser.’ ‘Right,’ I say. ‘OK. Poncey tosser. I shall make a note of that.’ ‘Fuck off!’ he shouts, stabbing the cue up in the air. The round end of the butt bangs violently into the low ceiling. Dust descends. He drops the cue and throws himself back down the stairs. ‘Well,’ I say. ‘Who on earth …?’ Keith is stepping on to a chair, magic marker in hand. ‘Fuck’s sake, Stephen. Don’t you know anything? Liam Gallagher.’ He draws a ring round the circular dent left in the plasterwork and writes: ‘The mark of a cunt.’ ‘Oasis,’ Alex explains. ‘There’s this really dumb thing about which one of us bands is better.’ ‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Ah. Yes. Quite. I see.’ Not seeing at all. (…)

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A new chapter of my liamon fantasy AU is finally here, and it's Damon's POV again!

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龙玉米和大棒公主的故事

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the heart shaped locket with a portrait of my nemesis inside stays ON during sex

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cuteee boys

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Do not think otherwise. I am your eternal rival, I hate you to the bitter end, even if I instinctively clung to your arm during the scary drop on the roller coaster,

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Angel of Knebworth: nite 1

lil drawing I did with these stunning color photos; og under the cut

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Fade Away.

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personally i’m a fan of when a story is like. the love was there. unfortunately. this all could have actually gone a lot easier for everyone if the love hadn’t been there but here we are

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Damon Albarn ♡

𝄞𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ 𓈈⭒♬ ﾟ.

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THEY'RE SO CUTE I'M GONNA THROW UP!!!!!! (x)