#George and Louise

[harrisonarchive]

Screenshot from The Beatles Anthology.

“[I love] Hoagy Carmichael, who my mother was also into.” - George Harrison, Billboard, December 5, 1992 “My mother, ‘Who’s That Girl’ by the Eurythmics. My dad, ‘Barnacle Bill the Sailor’ by Hoagy Carmichael.  He would go up at parties to the DJ and say, ‘I’ve got something really amazing.’ ‘Cause he was who he was, they would listen to him, and then everyone would just be bummed out, it would clear the dance floor. And then he’d come back later — ‘I’ve got something else’ — and he’d put it on again. You know, he would just do this until the DJ was like [exasperated].” - Dhani Harrison (on what songs he associates with his parents), la minute rock, Rolling Stone France, November 28, 2017 “Hoagy Carmichael reminds me of being around the fireplace at home with my parents when I was young. It's [‘Stardust‘] just one of these songs that brings me comfort; it's just beautiful. My mother and father had a jukebox; this song was number 7806 in the jukebox. Don't quote me on that! But, yes, I think it was 7806.” - Dhani Harrison, The Line of Best Fit, October 20, 2023 “[W]hether he listened to Hoagy Carmichael or Cab Calloway, we would go on a musical journey for like months at a time. You would wake up to ‘Bugle Call Rag’ on the jukebox, that was his way of getting Dhani up for school. You know, loud. [Laughs] He probably would have covered Barnacle Bill the Sailor by now, you know, because he had a funny version of that. And it was all about the chords and notes and the sentiment.” - Olivia Harrison, Dark Horse Radio, 2018 (x)

[hurricane-eva]

PLEASE GO LOOK AT MY PRETTY NEW COVER AND THEN HELP ME PTERODACTYL SCREAM AT THE WORLD ABOUT IT

THANK YOU

[diioonysus]

red + art

[harrisonstories]

George Harrison with his mother Louise (1964)

NOTE: This is an article from The Guardian posted in 2007 which I happened to come across. It's long but a lovely read. Enjoy!

With love from her to me In 1963, like many girls, Lilie Ferrari had a crush on George Harrison. When she wrote to him, she scarcely expected a reply, but an admiring letter did come back - from his mother. It was the start of an extraordinary, enduring correspondence In 1963, I was 14 and, like almost every girl in Britain, I fell in love with a Beatle. "My" Beatle was George Harrison. From the first photograph I saw of the Fab Four, I was drawn to his dark eyes, serious face and enigmatic demeanour. He rarely smiled, even when he was being funny, and this made him all the more mysterious and enticing. Compared to the uncouth boys I had to deal with at school every day, George was a delicate, idealised vision of what I thought boys ought to be like. If he had pimples, I never saw them. If he swore, I never heard it. I never saw his hair greasy, his armpits damp, his shoes scuffed. In short, he was perfect.

We had just moved to Norwich, and I had missed a Beatles concert by a few weeks; but a girl in my class had somehow obtained all the Beatles' home addresses (I daren't think how, looking back) and was selling them at playtime for half a crown each. A bargain, I thought, handing over my two-and-six eagerly. Immediately upon the exchange, 174 Mackets Lane, Liverpool, became the repository of all my fantasies.

That day I hurried home to compose my first letter to George. I had discovered the joy of words, and wasn't about to be intimidated into single syllables by writing to a Beatle. I don't remember exactly what I wrote, but in spite of my best intentions I suspect it was a gauche jumble of repressed adoration, along the lines of "You're the best Beatle" and "I much prefer From Me to You to Come On by the Stones". I don't remember waiting for the postman every morning. By then the Beatles had started their journey into the stratosphere (it was the year the term Beatlemania was coined) and I guess I assumed I was too small a cog in the great Beatle wheel to merit any kind of response.

But one day a letter with a Liverpool postmark did come, addressed to me in careful looped handwriting. I opened it with trembling fingers and, instead of a letter from George, found one from his mum, Louise.

After a few niceties and general bulletins about "the boys'" progress, a question leaped off the page: "Are you," she asked, "by any chance related to a writer called Ivy Ferrari, who writes doctor-and-nurse romances?"

I bellowed a great scream that brought the family running: my mother was Ivy Ferrari, a romantic novelist churning out Mills & Boon paperbacks with titles like Nurse at Ryminster, Doctor at Ryminster, Almoner at Ryminster. I couldn't believe it - I might be a fan of her son, but Mrs Harrison was evidently a fan of my mother. I felt as if I had been raised from one among millions to a special place in Mrs Harrison's head.

Of course I wrote back to tell her that I was indeed Ivy Ferrari's daughter. I was happy to have made the connection - but so, it seemed, was she. I couldn't quite grasp it. Beatles were glamorous; my mum was a harassed woman with inky fingers, unruly hair and scruffy skirts who sweated over a typewriter all day. How could they compare? In the past I might have been indifferent to the overwrought love lives of the fictional staff of Ryminster hospital, but now they seemed to take on a glamour of their own. George never wrote to me, and my mother never wrote to Mrs Harrison, but the two of us began a correspondence that lasted for several years - years that took her from the Mackets Lane council house to a smart bungalow in Appleton, George from gangling teenage guitarist to married man, and me from schoolgirl to young woman.

I sent Mrs Harrison signed copies of my mother's novels. She sent me signed pictures of the Beatles. I asked her intense questions ("Which one is your favourite, besides George?" Answer: "John, because he does the tango with me in the kitchen and makes me laugh"). She interrogated me about the mysteries of my mother's creations, such as whether my mum knew any real doctors like Dr David Callender. ("He was fairly tall and tough-looking, with tawny-brown hair and a lean, intent face. His eyes were dark and compelling, so full of fire and life they drew me like a magnet . . .")

On my 15th birthday, Mrs Harrison sent me a small piece of blue fabric, part of a suit George had worn at the Star Club in Hamburg. Once, I got a crumpled newspaper cutting containing a photo of the Beatles with their scribbled signatures on it, and a big lipstick kiss, which, she said, had been planted there by John Lennon.

She sent me notes that George wrote her on used envelopes: "Dear Mum, get me up at 3, love George." She wrote on the backs of old Christmas cards and odd bits of paper - I never knew why. She told me funny stories about her upbringing in Liverpool, a world of men in caps on bikes and old ladies with jugs of gin. I told her about my life in Norfolk, about my sisters, my pony, the dog, my mother. I told her things I didn't tell anyone else - my fear of failure, my terrible, hidden shyness, my longing to have real adventures, lead a different kind of life to the quiet, rural existence I endured. She was my invisible friend, the silent recipient of everything I had to say.

She always answered my questions, and offered up teasing glimpses of life as the mother of a superstar - "I'm sitting by the pool with Pattie. Had a lovely time at the film premiere" - remarks tantalisingly combined with more mundane observations about knitting and cakes. Of course I never mentioned "real" boys who had caught my eye - that would have been somehow unfaithful to George. That was the only omission I can remember - apart from never articulating how I felt about her son, because I wanted her to think of me as a "normal" girl, and not the wide-eyed obsessive I really was.

After several years the gaps between our exchanges grew longer, as real life began to get in the way of teenage fantasies. I can't remember which of us wrote the last letter, but by the time I was 18 and working in London, the correspondence had petered out.

Soon after we had slipped from each other's lives, I found myself standing a few feet away from George himself, in the Apple boutique on London's Baker Street. He looked tired and unapproachable. The George that I had conjured up in the kitchen of Mackets Lane, propping notes for his mum on the mantelpiece, seemed a kinder, gentler prospect than the gaunt-looking superstar standing before me who might just tell me to get lost. He was close enough to speak to, but I've never been sorry that I backed away in silence.

Mrs Harrison died in 1970 when I was 21. I remember reading about it in the papers. I grieved for her on my own, and remembered her small acts of kindness to a girl in Norfolk she had never met. Her son, of course, made an enormous mark on my life without ever knowing it. I even married someone who embodied all the things I thought George represented: quiet strength, spirituality, the same dry humour, the dark good looks. My husband Colin had been, among other things, a roadie and the owner of punk record shops. Fortunately, he also had a sense of humour and a high level of tolerance. He learned to live with the omnipresence of George, and would sign cards to me "Love from George and The Other One".

As the years passed, my life came into focus and George receded. He married, had a son, as did I. I went back to live in a Norfolk cottage, while George retired to a Gothic mansion in Henley. In 1994 I went to Liverpool for the first time with Colin, as a football supporter rather than a Beatles pilgrim: Norwich City were playing at Anfield. I took time out to stand in front of 174 Mackets Lane and tried to imagine Mrs Harrison sitting at the window in the front room, answering my letters. I wanted to weep, but I didn't. When Norwich scored the winning goal that afternoon and we leapt to our feet, I cheered instead for that kindly Liverpudlian who took the time and trouble to light up my teenage years.

I've gradually lost the priceless relics of those years. They would have made me rich if I hadn't been so careless with my belongings; then again, I would never have sold them. So my side of that eccentric correspondence has all but disappeared, along with my youth.

In September 2001, Colin died of Hodgkin's disease. A month later, George was dead, too. It felt as if two distinct parts of my life had ended all at once: my dreamlike girlhood, and my real, adult life with a beloved partner and friend. But every day in my study at home, I look at something that binds these two parts together. It's a photograph of George taken in 1962 in Hamburg by Astrid Kirchherr (girlfriend of "fifth" Beatle Stuart Sutcliffe). Colin secretly sought it out, bought it, hand-made a frame for it, and gave it to me on my 40th birthday. It is one of my most treasured possessions.

[estelletargaryen]

Members of the British Royal Family depart St Mary Magdalene Church in Sandringham after attending the Christmas Day morning church service on 25 December 2024

[weirdlookindog]

Louise Brooks

Die Büchse der Pandora (1929)

[aimeedaisies]

Four portraits taken by Annie Leibovitz in 2016

✨ Queen Elizabeth with her husband, Prince Philip

✨ Queen Elizabeth with her daughter, Princess Anne

✨ Queen Elizabeth with her daughter Princess Anne, her eldest granddaughter Zara Tindall and her great granddaughter Mia Tindall

✨ Queen Elizabeth with her two youngest grandchildren James Viscount Severn (now Earl of Wessex) and Lady Louise, and her great-grandchildren, Savannah Phillips, Isla Phillips, Mia Tindall, Prince George and Princess Charlotte

[thepeelingrenoir]

[crepesuzette2023]

Have you seen the quote of Paul talking about George's brother? Honestly I think that Paul had a crush on all of George's family.

Yes! George's older brother, who was "made a man" in the army, right? Thereby deeply impressing young Paul. I can see the Harrison family being attractive to Paul for a number of reasons: two parents, father a bus driver (thanks for the reminder, @pauls1967moustache), attractive older siblings...

I know we often joke about Paul stretching the age difference between himself and George, making George the same age as Paul's younger brother, Mike. But I wonder if part of Paul also saw the advantages of being the youngest in the house, and longed for it occasionally.

For no other reason than it's a beautiful picture: Here are George, his sister Louise, and his brother Peter, and Louise's daughter Leslie. George and Peter are visiting their sister in Illinois. (1963.)

[princessanneftw]

Today would have been Her Late Majesty Queen Elizabeth’s 97th birthday.

This photograph - showing her with some of her grandchildren and great grandchildren - was taken at Balmoral last summer.

📸 The Princess

@KensingtonRoyal | 21 April 2023

[leonisandmurex]

Savannah and...

[harrisonarchive]

Photo by Photo 12/Universal Images Group via Getty Images.

On October 5, 1962, The Beatles’ debut single, “Love Me Do,” was released in the UK.

“I remember when they did ‘Love Me Do,’ their first record, and George told us it might be going to be on Radio Luxembourg. We stayed up till two o’clock, glued to the set, and nothing happened. Harold went to bed, as he had to be up at five for the early shift on the buses. In the end, I went up to bed as well. I was just in the bedroom, when George came rushing up the stairs with the radio, shouting ‘We’re on, we’re on.’ Harold woke up and said, ‘Who’s brought that noisy gramophone in here?’” - Louise Harrison, The Beatles: The Authorized Biography (1968) “The first time I heard ‘Love Me Do’ on the radio, I went shivery all over.” - George Harrison, ibid (x)

[hurricane-eva]

Want to read the first two chapters of BELIEVE IN ME?

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[nofatclips]

I'm Away by Mounika. - Samples Wet Road by Scout Niblett and Machine Gun Funk by The Notorious B.I.G.

[mathsandwhiteroses]

Princess of Wales Winter 2024 Photo Challenge: Day 16

Favourite group photo(s) of Catherine

[arrestedexgirlfriendafterhigh]

They were made for this dialogue