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harrisonstories · 1 month ago

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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.

#the beatles #george harrison #louise harrison #john lennon #fan encounters #lillie ferrari #1960s

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lenetaylor · 6 months ago

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George and his "Asser"

A letter from George Harrison to Astrid Kircherr, August 1963, on stationery from the Palace Court, Bournemouth, where The Beatles had played The Gaumont, from Monday 19th August to Saturday 24th August 1963.

There is a LOT going on in this letter (George's obsession with photos?, George writing a book??, hate for Mrs. Sutcliffe???, George's aching balls????), but what endeared me was his nickname for Astrid: "Asser", which would be pronounced Assa or Azza. It's true, Hazza and the lads had loads of Northern nicknames for their mates!

My transcription under the cut.

DEAR ASTRID,

Do you remember me asking you in Tenerife to write to me as soon as you get back to Hamburg? You didn’t know how long you were going to stay at Klaus’ house, so you would write to me from Hamburg, then I would send you all the records and fun and games!

Betty (the great) comes to England all fat and sloppy saying, - “Vhy you no write to Astrid,” as if it was my fault, so just shut up. Anyway Asser, I bought you the records I told you about years ago, and they are still at home covered in dust, so if you have decided where about’s you are living lately, then let me know and I will send them to you with some other nice ones that you would like.

Fat Betty has seen all the Happy holiday Photos, hasn’t she? but I haven’t, oh-no. You won’t show them to me will you!

Actually if she had not come to England with King Size, then I would still be wondering which part of the world you where in!

I bought a Jaguar (car) last month, I think you would like it. I will send you a photograph of it, with the records as soon as I get back to Liverpool.

I hope you don’t think I am being funny but…..Could you look through your photographs and find some – or all of the photo’s that have the Beatles, either all together or separately, or that any of us with other people on them, in fact any photographs at all that may be of interest and then if you felt in a HAPPY ASTRID MOOD, do you think that you could either GIVE or LEND them to me. It does not matter if they photographs are terrible, as I won’t tell anybody that you made them, if you want me to.

You know that Paul and John are going to be very rich soon, when they collect the money they have made by writing all those songs, and I don’t think that you would like to see me poor and hungry, so I have decided to make a book. It won’t be a DA SADE type book, but a daft story about the BEATLES, with some photographs in it, and then I hope to sell it to all the nice people and then I can buy food with the money…Can’t I?

I would like to have some pictures that the people haven’t already seen in all the other books, so that is why I am asking you. It would be very nice of you, even if the pictures were old at the Indra and KaiserKeller and Top Ten. I know you are very particular about what you do with all the lovely photos, but if you are nice and send me some with the negatives, then I will kill Mrs. Sutcliffe for you! But if you don’t, then I will pay for Mrs. S. To go to Hamburg and see you for a Holiday!!!

What happened to Jürgen? Do you know his address? Where is Klaus now, as I still haven’t said ‘Thank you’ for letting us live in his house.

How are you Asser? Are you well, because I have been ill all week, feeling tired all the time. The doctor gave me a tonic which is like liquid preludin. My balls have been aching too, and banging around on stage!

We will be in Paris for 3 weeks in January. I will write again with the records cheerio and love from Georgie (your friend who wants the photos)

This was published in the July 2015 issue of Record Collector.

#george harrison #astrid kirchherr #the beatles #hamburg

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whorekneecentral · 1 year ago

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Holiday Greetings

Virgil Van Dijk x Fem!Reader

Warnings: holiday postcards bring together friends, old friends reconnect, falling out with family, virgil never gave up on the friendship, mentions of bad relationships, surprise visits, old habits die hard, wet dreams, sharing a bed, making dreams a reality, oral (m!receiving), sub!virg vibes for like 0.2 seconds, penetrative sex (p in v), choking, using of the word 'whore' in a sexual context, sweetness from the big man at the end.

Word Count: 2,934

Author's Note: again, so sorry for posting this late but y'all know the big man is my babyyyyy so hopefully you guys like this one as much as I do!

merry smutmas series

You send your old friend a Christmas card every year and when he sees that a certain someone was no longer in the picture, he pays you a long overdue visit.

The world works in funny ways; the red string theory and what not, you find the people that were meant to be in your lives one way or another.

He just happened to always be your person.

You and Virgil were old friends, you grew up down the street from each other; your families were always interlinked, the two of you attached at the hip - from school to Virgil's football matches around the corner from the houses, you were together.

At 18, you upped and left Holland without so much as a warning; all Virgil received was a letter in the mail, letting him know that something had happened with your family and you could no longer stay there. He tried to get you to come home, telling you that his mom would be more than happy to have you with them, which was true but you assured him you'd be fine.

He never gave up, asking you again when he signed with the Celtic and then again when he was with Southampton and Liverpool.

Despite you not taking him up on his offers to move in, you always kept in contact with Virgil; you didn’t talk often, a happy birthday message or a message of congrats when things went well for his career.

You never fully settled until recently, moving from job to job, place to place. For a while, you didn't have an address, bouncing from Belgium to Germany and then Spain before you finally settled in Switzerland.

Regardless of your lack of address, you and Virgil kept up your tradition of sending holiday postcards. It was your yearly catch-up, but you and Virgil would send a card back-and-forth and write a little message on the back of it.

For the last few years, there has been an addition to your cards; first it was your puppy, Sammy and then over the last 3 years, your boyfriend, John.

Virgil had never personally met John, but based on your type in men, he could tell that John was no good for you. The first card he got with him in it, you were happy, smiling but as the years went on, there was still a smile but he knew you well enough to know you weren’t you.

This year's card arrived early, the first week of December rather than the week before Christmas. Liverpool was wrapping up for the holidays as they'd be going on winter break. Virgil was pleasantly surprised to see that it was just you and Sammy on the card this year. He flipped it over to see what you had written on the back.

Dear Virg,

I don't have much to report this year; turned a year older, got a promotion and I bought a new car - yes I still have the old one, I cannot bring myself to trade/sell it.

I see that you've made some big moves, congratulations skipper! Proud doesn't begin to cover it and you know that I always said you'd make it big.

Hope all is well with you.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!

Yours always,

Y/n.

Virgil smiles, your words and card tucked safely back into the envelope it came in as he took his laptop out to look up something; flights to Switzerland.

He had some time between the end of the season and his return to Holland for the holidays. What better way to spend the time than to visit his favourite person in the world?

It had been years since he last saw you; frankly he hadn't seen you since you left all those years again but nothing's changed between you two. You were still y/n and Virgil - attached at the hip as always.

Switzerland was even colder as he expected it to be. Despite coming from cold, cold England, Virgil still felt as if he was underdressed.

The car parked at the curb as he checks the return address on your holiday card and the address he had put into google maps. Assuring himself he was at the right place, he got out and grabbed his bags, walking to the porch.

Christmas had always been your favourite holiday so to see your house decked out in decorations, lights and garland wasn't a big shocker. The little plaid doggie bed by the door was an assurance that he was in the right place - you had sent him a picture of Sammy in the same spot when you first adopted him.

Virgil shook off the nerves, knocking on the door. A part of him wanted to run away but another part of him couldn't wait to see you.

Sammy must have made it to the door before you, barking to alert you that someone was at the door. He could hear your voice, "shut your big mouth! I heard it!" You tell the dog, scooting him out of the way to open the door.

"He- what the fuck?" You passed, shocked to see who was at your front door.

"Is that how you greet everyone who comes to your house?" He asked you, a big smile on his face.

You laughed, setting your coffee mug on the entryway table, not saying anything but pulling Virgil into a bone crushing hug; it felt the same as it did all those years ago, it felt like home - he felt like home.

You stepped aside. "Please, come in. Make yourself at home."

Sammy runs over, jumping on Virgil. The man reached down to say hello to the dog, scratching behind his ear. You shut the door, noticing his bags. "Where are you staying?"

He glances at you, the same sly look on his face that you'd seen a million times before. "I was hoping I could stay here?"

You laughed, nodding. "Yeah, of course." You pulled Sammy away from Virgil for a minute, letting him take off his coat and walk into the house a bit more. "What the hell are you doing in Switzerland?" You asked him, sitting on the couch.

Virgil shrugged, joining you on the couch, "I came to see you, seemed like the right time to pay you a visit."

Just as well as Virgil knows you, you know him. You're certain he pieced together your break up and that's why he's here.

"You know you don't need to look after me, Virg. I'm not 15, I'm a big girl." You glance at your friend.

Virgil nods, his hand patting your thigh, "I'm not looking after you, y/n. I'm visiting my friend."

"Well in that case, how about dinner? My treat."

"Oh I'm the footballer and I don't have to pay for dinner? I should come visit more often." He jokes as you reach over his lap to the side table to get your phone.

It was as if no time had passed; you and Virgil comfortable in each other's space as if you were in your childhood bedrooms, giggling about the rumours at school or rerunning the tackles Virgil made on the pitch.

You settled on what to eat for dinner; a local place that made the best pizza on the planet, based on the fact that Virgil ate half the box, you'd say he agrees with your statement.

At some point throughout the night, you two shifted from spot to spot, just chatting about life. From the dining room table to the kitchen and finally back on the couch.

It was rather domestic and so easy for you two to slip into this little routine, even though Virgil had only been there for the evening. You're leaning on him, his arm over your shoulder with Sammy curled up on the other side of him, a movie playing quietly as you continued chatting.

"So do you like it?" You look at him and he nods. "Being captain is the dream come true. It's a great team, the place is so.. I don't think there's a word to explain how special it is to me and the guys.. we've got a fantastic team both on and off the pitch."

"That was such a PR response." You teased, laughing. Virgil smiles, pinching your shoulder softly.

"I'm going home after this, back to Breda. I'm there until new years and then it's back to Liverpool."

"That's nice," you smiled, "tell your mom I say hello."

Virgil laughs. "You can tell her yourself, she always tells me that you two are friends on Facebook."

"Don't diss your mom, dude! You're just hating because your mom is cooler than you and she gets to have me on Facebook and not you."

"I don't have Facebook, I'm not 67 years old."

"You shouldn't hate when you've got a big ass head like that."

"Shut up!" He laughed, smacking your arm softly. He sighs, glancing at you, "you should come home, it'd be nice to go home, no?"

"I.. I can't." You tell him, turning your attention back to the tv.

"Why not? It's been years, y/n. I'm sure your family wants to see you and so much has changed, don't you wanna see our home?"

"I can't, Virg. Not after what happened."

His brows furrowed, leaning back a bit to fully look at you. "What did happen, y/n? You never told me."

You shake your head, things were said that couldn't be taken back - none of which were your fault but no one ever seemed to care. Your family never reached out to apologize so you never did too.

Virgil looks at you, your silence was an answer in itself but he can't help but wonder what went wrong. He had asked his mom, knowing your mom and his were close, they often chatted and still do to this day but his mom never told him anything. She'd often remind him that if he doesn't know, it's because he's not meant to know.

He can't help but feel sad; not only for you but for him, for what could have been if you two had maybe gotten together, if maybe you had never left home.

You quietly get up, excusing yourself and heading up to your room. Virgil hadn't been your place before but in the short time he has been there, he figured out where things went. It was like a second home to him, he took it upon himself to clean up and take Sammy out before coming back in and locking up.

He makes his way up the stairs and knocks on the first door to the right, the same room that you occupied when you were at home.

Suppose old habits die hard.

"Y/n?" He knocks on the door, peeking into the room. "Can I come in?"

You nod, lying on your bed. Virgil lets himself in and sits next to you on the bed. You're on your side, your back to the man as you feel the weight of the mattress shift, his hand passing through your hair gently. You roll, now facing him and curling into his side.

"I'm sorry," he whispers into the silence of the room. "I didn't to upset you when I said-"

"You didn't," you cut him off. "It's just.. complicated is all."

Virgil shifts, now lying next to you and you move to rest your head on his chest. The two of you cuddled against one another, comfortably relaxing as you'd done a million times before when you were teenagers.

You're not sure when the minutes turned into hours but you had both fallen asleep.

The sound of Virgil's voice woke you from your slumber. You thought you heard him say something but when you glanced at the man, he was still fast asleep. You just assumed he was asleep and settled back into bed.

A few moments later, he makes a sound - a soft whimper.

You open your eyes to check on him again, trying to see if something was wrong and yet, he was still sleeping. You figured he was just dreaming.

You see make out his silhouette on the bed, the blanket tossed over Virgil as he shifted in his sleep. You can hear him mumble, you shake him softly. “Virg, you okay?” You ask when he groans. He rubs his eyes, confused for a moment.

“Y/n? What are you doing ?” He hadn’t realized the blanket had slipped down when he sat up. You glance down and you instantly look away. “Oh uh, sorry.”

He was confused for a moment, he looked down and he pulled the blanket back up, his cheeks red and shy. “Sorry! I didn’t realize-”

“It’s okay,” you glance at him. “It happens. I didn't mean to wake you, it's just.. I heard my name and you were, well, groaning." You trailed off, Virgil's cheek burning hot as he looked anywhere but at you.

It takes you a second but you connect the dots. Between the hard cock hidden away under the blanket and the avoidance of his glance, you realized why he was calling your name.

“Oh,” you breathe, “um, if you want.. I can help you with that if you want.”

Virgil seemed shocked by your offer, his eyes widened. "What?"

"I mean, it was obvious you were dreaming of me, Virg. It's not like I haven't seen you naked before," you joked, trying to lighten the mood.

"Yeah but.. this is different."

Your hand rests on his thigh, “not really, I'm just helping you with it.”

Virgil shifts in the bed, suddenly feeling a bit shy and he can’t help but think about what you’d look like on your knees, looking up at him. He nods, “oh-okay.”

“Yeah?” You ask, looking at him. Virgil nods once more, slowly moving the blanket off his lap. You shift to lay between his legs, pulling his cock out of his boxers.

He watches as your lips wrap around his cock, tongue running over the tip. His hand tangles in your hair, pulling it away from your face as you lean down all the way, taking all of him into your mouth.

Your cheeks hollow around him, Virgil's hips buck at the feeling. A half smile playing on your lips when you glance up at him. You can see the red on his cheeks, the way his eyes follow you every move, watching as your head bobbed up and down, your cheeks hallowed around him.

It had been months, if not longer since he’d been with anyone like this; every time he even dared touch himself, you were the thought on his mind. It was like he was a teenager again, crushing on you and just wishing you'd make the first move because as confident as he was on the pitch, he was far too shy to make the move on you.

He'd be lying if he said he never imagined what it would feel like, what you would look like, how you'd make him feel.

It didn’t take long; your hand sliding up his torso and your lips wrapped around him, tongue pressed to the underside of his cock. Virgil's hips buck once more, you can feel him at the back of your throat.

He pushes you off of him, your brows furrow. "What? Something wrong?" You asked him, your tongue passing over your bottom lip, tasting him.

The sight of that alone makes his cock twitch.

"I wanna feel you," he whispers and you can't help the smile on your face.

You let Virgil pull you up for a kiss, tasting himself on your lips as he undressed you. Slowly, a pile of clothes ends up on the floor and you're on all fours. The man's behind you and your back arches, the curve of your spine evident when he drags his finger along it.

Virgil pushes into you, his name falling from your lips. “God, please Virg, like that,” the words tumble out, begging him for more as he fucks you.

His hands squeezing your hips, nails digging into your flesh. Your hand reaching under you, fingers barely reaching to rub your clit.

He pulls you up, his arm wrapped around your neck, your back pressed to his chest. His fingers dig into the side of your neck for a moment, squeezing you a bit.

The two of you facing the mirror in your room, “look pretty girl,” he whispers into your ear, “look how pretty you looked all fucked out.”

Your eyes open, looking at the screen in front of you. his eyes meet yours, and you smile. “You’re such a whore,” he hums, chuckling.

Between the angle you were at and his hand sliding down to rub on your clit, your head drops back onto his shoulder, begging him to let you cum.

Your eyes find him in the mirror and you don’t even have to say anything, he knows exactly what you’re saying.

“Shh, it’s okay sweetheart, I know.” He tells you, thrusts getting sloppier by the second.

The two of you in sync, Virgil's chest pressed to your back as you came down from your orgasm. He peppered kisses all over your back, rubbing your side softly. He leans to press a kiss to your neck before pulling out slowly.

You're flat on your stomach, catching your breath when Virgil moves off of you and shifts to next to you. His arm rests over your back, rubbing your skin soft. "You okay?" He asks quietly.

Glancing at him, you smile. "Perfect."

Virgil smiles, leaning over to kiss you.

taglist: @nosugarallspice @evieepepi08 @mimithepooh @koufaxx @dannyramirezwife-simpaccount @topguncultleader @molliemoo3 @aisharmi @mamako23 @ac3may @lewislcver @miahgonzalez16 @books-and-netflix-pls @wibi96 @bwddermilch @pedrisgatorade @clarasenchant @sainzluvrr // @trentsfav @trentsmyfave @noturbabe22

#merry smutmas xoxo #virgil van dijk #virgil van dijk x reader #virgil van dijk smut #football #football x reader #football x you #football x y/n #football smut

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gardenwalrus · 14 days ago

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— ‘Penny Lane’ music video

‘Penny Lane’ was kind of nostalgic, but it was really a place that John and I knew; it was actually a bus terminus. I’d get a bus to his house and I’d have to change at Penny Lane, or the same with him to me, so we often hung out at that terminus, like a roundabout. It was a place that we both knew, and so we both knew the things that turned up in the story.

— Paul McCartney interview with Clash Magazine (9 September 2009) (x)

There’s a documentary aspect to Penny Lane, though it’s best viewed perhaps as a docudrama. Which is not so strange, since, when I was going to John’s house in Liverpool, I would change buses at the Penny Lane roundabout, where Church Road meets Smithdown Road. As well as being a bus terminal, and a place that featured very much in my life and in John’s life — we would often meet there — it was near St Barnabas Church, where I was a choirboy. So it resonates in several ways; it’s still “in my ears and in my eyes”.

— Paul McCartney within The Lyrics (2021)

No matter where he was headed — to school or to see friends — the bus inevitably took him first to Penny Lane. PAUL: The area was called Penny Lane; we would often use it because a lot of bus routes converge there. It was on the way to Liverpool city centre so I would pass it every day on my bus route or if I was taking the bus to John's, if it was raining or something, I'd take it to there and change and get the bus up to his house. George and I used to to go through there to the cinema and it was also the way to a friend called Arthur Kelly who was a school mate. [...] PAUL: John and I would often meet at Penny Lane. That was where someone would stand and sell you poppies each year on British Legion poppy day; where John and I would put a shilling in the can and get ourselves a poppy. That was a memory. We fantasised the nurse selling poppies from a tray, which Americans used to think was puppies! Which again is an interesting image. I was a choirboy at a church opposite called St Barnabas so it had a lot of associations for me.

— Within Barry Miles, Many Years From Now (1997)

#paul mccartney #john lennon

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tavolgisvist · 17 days ago

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Then you’d go to people’s houses and they would often have record collections. I remember my Auntie Jin having Tumble along with the Tumbling Tumbleweed.’ And then a couple of early Elvis records. So I’d try ’em all, mainly old 78s. I remember putting my cousin Kath’s 78s through the clothes mangle, just to see if they’d crack. My brother and I got a big tellmg-off for that. And yes, they cracked, and she was well pissed-off.

(Paul McCaertney in Liverpool - Wondrous Place by Paul Du Noyer, 2002)

Another McCartney brothers' great ideas: commercial case scientific enquiry

And - this small family business:

In fact my Dad had been a spotlight operator at a place called the Hippodrome - he used to trim the limelight - so he’d see all the music hall acts come through Liverpool and he’d learn all the songs. And he’d go home between the first and second houses, taking all the programmes that the people left lying around. My Auntie Jin and Auntie Millie would iron them, and he’d take them back and sell ’em to the second house!

(Paul McCaertney in Liverpool - Wondrous Place by Paul Du Noyer, 2002)

Part (I), (II), (III), (IV), (V), (VI), (VII), (VIII), (IX), (X), (XI), (XII), (XIII), (XIV), (XV), (XVI), (XVII), (XVIII), (XIX), (XX), (XXI), (XXII)

#paul mccartney #mike mccartney #jim mccartney #auntie jin #auntie millie #paul du noyer

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turneradora · 4 months ago

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'RIVALS

‘Lots and lots of sex': Dame Jilly Cooper on her show Rivals

"Would you like a large drink?"

A visit to Dame Jilly Cooper’s house in the Cotswolds is everything you would hope it would be.

It's just after midday, as displayed on the numerous clocks on the packed walls of her hall and living rooms. Almost every surface inch is taken up with art, family photos, framed cartoons or sporting memorabilia - including, rather unexpectedly, a signed Emile Heskey Liverpool shirt.

Despite the relatively early hour, the writer of some of the best-selling novels of the 1980s is keen to share the contents of her drinks cabinet.

She believes in providing old-school hospitality at the former 14th Century monks' dormitory she has called home for more than 40 years, and where she lived with her husband Leo until his death in 2013.

Earlier, on the way into her village, we drove past a jodhpur-clad gent on a horse, who gave us a roguish, charming smile. He could have ridden straight off the pages of one of her Rutshire Chronicles books.

Her so-called "bonkbusters" - a term Dame Jilly does not like - were set in the world of the horse-owning, bed-swapping, countryside-residing upper classes.

"Low morals and high fences" is how she rather perfectly sums up the books. With their mix of sex and scandal, they were publishing sensations.

The second of the books, 1988's Rivals, has just been adapted into an eight-part Disney+ series with an all-star cast including Aidan Turner, David Tennant, Danny Dyer, Victoria Smurfit and Emily Atack.

Dame Jilly served as an executive producer, which is why we have been invited to pay her a visit, although she does not want to claim credit for what she describes as an "absolutely wonderful" adaptation.

"How much of a say did I have? Not much," she laughs, explaining that her grandson Jago was a runner on the production, so when she went visited the set, she was better known as "Jago's granny".

She suggested some changes, though.

"I did occasionally say, 'No, I don't think they should be jumping on each other quite so early in the story' and things like that."

'Sex, drinking and parties'

Set in the world of 1980s TV, Dame Jilly is relieved that the most outlandish sensibilities and plotlines of Rivals have not been toned down for a more sensitive 2024 audience.

In the first episode, before even the opening credits, a pair of fully exposed male buttocks are on display during a "mile-high" sex scene on Concorde.

"That was not in the book," she nods approvingly.

"It’s fun. It’s quite naughty too." She pauses, before adding: "There is a lot of sex. In one episode they have every member of the cast coupled and fornicating for the next 20 minutes and all of that."

Dame Jilly sounds rather shocked by what she saw. "Well, 87 is very old and you do forget about sex," she offers by way of explanation.

When I ask her what in life makes her blush, she gives a rather surprising answer. "Books I wrote in the old days. Because I'm amazed at some of the things I wrote about. They are quite strong."

It turns out that she is currently in the middle of re-reading Rivals to swot up ahead of more interviews about the show.

"Lots and lots and lots of sex," is her review.

"The 80s really were the most fun time," she muses.

"Masses of sex, masses of drinking, masses of parties. The younger generation all wish they had been born then."

However, she's quick to point out that one of the most non-MeToo-friendly aspects of the TV series, when an uninvited bum grope is used as a replacement for a chat-up line, wasn't in the print version.

There are many aspects of the 1980s for which she is nostalgic, in particular what she perceives as a major change in the dynamics of relationships.

"I think women are much tougher, much stronger and much more forthright. And I think men are much, much less macho. I mean, macho has gone. You are not allowed to be macho.

"Women are stronger and men are weaker, therefore there is not so much sexual desire between them," is her summation.

She also believes there is another contributing factor to a decline in modern love lives.

"Everybody jogs. They get up in the morning, they jog all around the countryside for hours. They do exercises. That’s what they do now. They don't have sex any more. They are far too tired to have sex now. Jogging is bad for people's love life. Ruinous."

Back in the 1980s, the idea of Jilly Cooper teaming up with Disney would have seemed as likely as Rivals being chosen for Jackanory.

There is no doubt that she's thrilled by the collaboration.

"I loved Disney as a child. Passionately. Dumbo, Bambi."

There are many aspects of the 1980s for which she is nostalgic, in particular what she perceives as a major change in the dynamics of relationships.

"I think women are much tougher, much stronger and much more forthright. And I think men are much, much less macho. I mean, macho has gone. You are not allowed to be macho.

"Women are stronger and men are weaker, therefore there is not so much sexual desire between them," is her summation.

She also believes there is another contributing factor to a decline in modern love lives.

Back in the 1980s, the idea of Jilly Cooper teaming up with Disney would have seemed as likely as Rivals being chosen for Jackanory.

There is no doubt that she's thrilled by the collaboration.

"I loved Disney as a child. Passionately. Dumbo, Bambi."

In previous adaptations of her work, Dame Jilly was not happy with the casting of "the handsomest man in England" Rupert Campbell-Black, the fictional former Olympian and future Conservative MP, notorious for his conquests in the boardroom and the bedroom.

This time, the part has gone to the English actor Alex Hassell, who starred in His Dark Materials. In Rivals, he is seen without any material at all, courtesy of a nude tennis scene.

"They interviewed 600 people for that one," reveals Dame Jilly, who was delighted with the final choice, despite some obvious differences to her literary creation.

"He's very handsome. Rupert's blond-haired and blue-eyed in the book, but he's become dark and dark-eyed. But he’s very sexy."

Further details about her main character are explained during a walk with Dame Jilly through her large garden, as she points out the view over a valley, which inspired the literary location of his mansion.

She also guides us to small two-storey outbuilding, gently announcing: "I wrote Rivals in there. Above a room with all the garden tools. It was very quiet."

The only hard part about interviewing Dame Jilly is trying to stop her continually asking her own questions, such is her enthusiasm and interest in every aspect of life.

She reveals that until Rivals she had never heard of Danny Dyer ("he's lovely, quite shy"), the aspect of modern life which most frustrates her is inheritance tax, and she is not a fan of the concept of internet dating ("awful").

She also enjoyed looking back at a busy year, which has included having a damehood bestowed on her by King Charles.

It turns out he used the occasion to pass on some betting tips. "He laughed and said, 'By the way, if you are going to Ascot, we’ve got some rather good horses'."

There was also an invitation to Downing Street by the then Prime Minister Rishi Sunak, who had revealed himself to be a fan of her books. "He was lovely," she enthuses.

"The King. A prime minister. I’ve got about a bit," she giggles. "There was me saying I never meet men any more."

One thing she will not be doing is writing anymore Rutshire Chronicles: "No, I think Rupert’s old enough now."

However, this TV version of Rivals, only goes up to halfway through the novel, so if successful, the plan would be more seasons.

"I hope so, yes," she beams. "That would keep us all very happy for the next few years."

We are invited to take a seat at the kitchen table, followed by an offer of cakes and more suggestions of stiff drinks.

When I ask if a cup of tea could be an alternative, a look combining disappointment, disapproval and pity comes over her face.

Once again, modern man has let Dame Jilly Cooper down.

Rivals is on Disney+ from 18 October.

#aidanturnerinternational #aidan turner #séries #rivals #declan o’hara #declan

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lavelleestates · 1 year ago

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#Sell house Liverpool #Houses for sell in Liverpool #Houses for sell in Liverpool UK #Sell your Home in Liverpool #Want to sell your home in Liverpool?#Liverpool Estate Agents #Cheapest Estate Agency Liverpool

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unitedbydevils · 1 month ago

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Match Review: Wolverhampton Wanderers 2-0 Manchester United

Merry Christmas, United fans. For fuck sake...

As the black sheep of a Wolves family... this one hurts. I know they're something of a bogey team for us, but today United were woeful.

Amorim is taking a lot of criticism for how he lined up and whatnot, but is he really at fault? You could see the frustrations from Hojlund today - people taking far too long to make a pass or not looking at their goal threat making moves. It's so, so poor.

United being with 10-men explains why we fell slightly behind Wolves for possession, but the quality of our play was very "meh". 80% pass accuracy vs 83% of near-relegation Wolves. Awful. That said, with our form... we're becoming a relegation battle side.

There have been some positives, like Ugarte, Mazraoui, De Ligt, and of course Amad, but that's about it. A lot of people have been very poor - and some who we know there's more to come from.

Kobbie Mainoo is one such example. He's young, and I want him to stay, but Kobbie is not doing great at the moment. The obvious answer is to start playing Casemiro more, but it feels like - based on the rumours - INEOS want him out the door because of his wages. He's paid a lot, too much I'd say, but of anyone in our team on big money he's the one who historically has earned it. He could do a job at the moment, and we're harming ourself if that is the case (as opposed to Amorim just not rating him).

United were lacklustre at best and offensive at worst. We looked devoid of confidence, ideas, motivation, and effort. The problem is that while it's difficult learning a new system, there's still basics of football that you have to accomplish, and those things aren't being achieved.

Specific personnel also have to take blame. CAPTAIN Bruno Fernandes, on a yellow card, getting a second booking moments into the second half? Un-fucking-believable. And not just that, wholly unnecessary. A needless tackle that threw the game. This is exactly the shit that gets him abuse, because he can be petulant, stroppy, and in this case clumsy. Do better, be better.

Andre Onana also comes in for criticism. Two goals conceded from corners in the space of a week or so? Unreal. It's not heard of, and it's not suddenly United being targeted. This is how people challenge keepers and getting in the way, and yet Onana just wilts under the same pressure that we criticised Bayindir for faltering at and bang, repeat goal.

youtube

I hinted at the idea of doing a squad keep/sell list, and that will be the next post. As Andy Mitten (above) says - you get the feeling that most of the squad are rightly for sale because this is god awful.

I watched this match with friends at their house and said when Cunha was skinning our players in the first half: this is the game that will be shown when United sign Cunha. This was the moment. And it was a top performance. He showed pace, guile, and goal threat. We're crying out for this, and in that left 10 aside Hojlund today he'd have been immense. Maybe one for the summer, especially if Wolves get relegated.

If, after listening to the wise words of Andy, you want to punish yourself, then the match "highlights" are below.

Next up are Newcastle at 8pm on Monday 30th. Given our form... another defeat. Then it's Liverpool on the 5th... another defeat. And then it's Arsenal in the FA Cup... another defeat. This is going to get worse before it gets better.

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#manchester united #man u #man united #man utd #manchester reds #casemiro #ruben amorim #matheus cunha #rasmus højlund #andre onana #bruno fernandes #molineux #english premier league #Youtube

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charlesandmartine · 1 month ago

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Tuesday 24th December 2024

Christmas Eve 2024, Carol's at St Andrew's

It doesn't seem possible that it is Christmas Eve. Christmas does seem to have snuck up on us. There are trees and lights here, and I think I heard jingle bells in Coles yesterday, but the whole razzmatazz thing is not really in train here or anywhere on our travels such as it usually is at home. Coles are insistent on the TV that I buy a ham the size of a small country, we settled for a very nice basted and stuffed joint of pork in a small box. We note that Love Actually is on Stan, as is 'Its a Wonderful Life.' Well, that's TV sorted. 'Gavin and Stacey' is on a paid channel, so we might have to wait till we get home for that, so no spoilers, please. Our Christmas Day shopping complete, all in, including Coles finest mince pies, veg, ice cream, SB, a feast let me tell you, tallied about £40. Bargain.

Manly was heaving today, and such a contrast to the town we left in October, which, of course, was still springtime. Now, it has emerged like a butterfly from a chrysalis. Manly is now vibrant with life and colour. The cafés open and spilling out onto the streets, the Corso, previously an empty street, now with a bustling street market selling trendy craftware. Young folk everywhere, milling around any outlet like moths to a light bulb. We described it as Clapham by the Sea. We bought a pie.

This evening, we caught a ferry into Sydney to celebrate Christmas at St Andrew's Cathedral for four lessons and carols. Like Liverpool, Sydney has two cathedrals; St Andrew's being the Anglican one. The service was extremely good, starting in the traditions of time immemorial as the lone chorister sings the first verse of Once in Royal David's City before the choir processes up the nave and the congregation joins in. The music was excellent, led by a very competent Director of Music who coaxed all of us to belt these familiar carols out. The building itself was quite remarkable. Firstly, building work began in 1819, which is just 31 years after the first fleet sailed into Sydney Harbour. When all other aspects of building a new city urgently needed attention, they built a cathedral as well. Its first architect, Francis Greenaway, had been transported for fraud!Secondly, it is a faithful but smaller replica of a Norman European Cathedral, built 1000 years before in the Perpendicular style similarly used in Canterbury, Winchester, and York. To put a perspective on timing, 'Hark the Herald Angels Sing,' was penned by Charles Wesley, who died just at the time of the arrival of the First Fleet in 1788. This is a young country that has come such a long way in such a short time.

It was surreal to attend a carol service wearing shorts. The vicar in his opening remarks apologised if it was a little warm in the cathedral, but they had left the doors open all day hoping to cool it, and fans were installed to move the air around. Compare this to last Christmas and our attendance at a similar service in Gloucester Cathedral. We froze.

Leaving the service we strolled back down George to see celebrations in the square by the old GPO building where a massive Christmas tree had been erected, and festivities with band and choir were leading community singing of seasonal songs. Very jolly.

We then made our way to Circular Quays and the Fortune of War pub, the oldest in Sydney, which first served beer in 1828. A great atmosphere, served by Irish barmaids, and drinking Byron Ale. Great end to a most enjoyable day. We walked home, passing houses in dark streets, gardens bedecked with Christmas lighting, loving the atmosphere here, our second time here at Christmas.

ps. We had our first mince pie of the season today.

#St Andrew's Cathedral Sydney #The Fortune of War

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dailyanarchistposts · 2 months ago

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Way of death

Still, the emphasis on debt is puzzling, since nothing in the ethnography suggests that in the 1950s debt was a pervasive concern of everyday Tiv life. Here I think we have to turn to a larger historical context.

The early history of the Tiv is difficult to reconstruct, but they appear to have arrived in the Benue River valley and adjacent lands sometime around 1750 – that is, during a time when all of what’s now Nigeria was being torn apart by the Atlantic slave trade. Early stories told how the Tiv, during their migrations, used to paint their wives and children with simulated smallpox scars, so that potential raiders would be afraid to carry them off. They established themselves in a notoriously inaccessible stretch of country, and offered up ferocious defence against periodic raids from neighbours to their north and west (Abraham 1933: 17–26; Akiga Sai 1954; Bohannan 1954). Some of these raids were not entirely unsuccessful. It’s probably not insignificant that the nearby Jukun kingdom, which made a series of ultimately unsuccessful attempts to conquer the Tiv in the 18th century, disposing many Tiv captives to slave-dealers on the coast in the process, was also seen, in later times, as the real origin of the ‘organisation’ of the mbatsav (Abraham 1933: 19, 31–5; Curtin 1969: 255, 298; Latham 1973: 29; Tambo 1976: 201–3).

One might also consider the actual origin of the famous copper bars used as social currency.

Copper bars had been used for money in this part of Africa for centuries; often, it seemed, they were used not just for social purposes but broken up into small change for use in ordinary commercial transactions (Jones 1958; Latham 1971; Northrup 1978: 157–64; Herbert 2003: 196). Ibn Battuta saw people using copper bars to buy everyday wares in marketplaces in the nearby Niger region as far back as the 1340s. Most of the bars current in 18th- and 19th-century Tivland, on the other hand, were not local products. They were mass-produced in factories in Birmingham, and imported through the port of Old Calabar at the mouth of the Cross River, by slave-traders based in Liverpool and Bristol. The Tiv were unusual in restricting these bars to social purposes. In all the country adjoining the Cross River – that is, in the region directly to the south of the Tiv territory – they were still used as everyday currency.

It is hardly surprising that Tiv were suspicious of such items. Almost everywhere else, they were also the currency of the slave. During the 1760s alone, perhaps 100,000 Africans were shipped down the Cross River to Calabar and nearby ports, where they were put in chains, placed on British, French or other European ships, and shipped across the Atlantic – part of perhaps 1.5 million exported from the Bight of Biafra during the whole period of the trade (Eltis et al. 2000; Lovejoy and Richardson 1999: 337). Some had been captured in wars, raids or simply kidnapped. The majority, though, were carried off because of debts.

In fact the Atlantic Slave Trade as a whole was a gigantic network of credit arrangements. Ship-owners based in Liverpool or Bristol would acquire goods on easy credit terms from local wholesalers, expecting to make good by selling slaves (also on credit) to planters in the Antilles and America, with commission agents in the city of London ultimately financing the affair through the profits of the sugar and tobacco trade (Sheridan 1958; Price 1980, 1989, 1991). Ship-owners would then ship their wares to African ports like Old Calabar. Calabar was the quintessential mercantile city-state, dominated by an African elite who dressed in European clothes, built themselves European-style houses, and in some cases even sent their children to England to be educated.

On arrival, European merchants would negotiate the value of their cargoes in the copper rods that served as the currency of the port. The cargoes themselves consisted of cloth, iron and copper ware, incidental goods like beads, and substantial numbers of firearms. The goods were then advanced to Calabar’s merchant elite, again on credit, who assigned them to their own agents to move upstream.

The obvious problem was how to secure the debt. The trade was an extraordinarily duplicitous and brutal business, and merchants who often doubled in the interior as no more than raiders and kidnappers were also notoriously bad credit risks. As a result, a system quickly developed where European captains would demand security in the form of pawns.

It would seem that, with the development of commercial towns on the West African coast, institutions that must have originally resembled Lele pawnship, or Tiv wards, had gradually transformed into what was effectively a form of debt peonage. We don’t know precisely how it happened, but the process was clearly well under way even before Europeans appeared on the scene in the 16th century. Debtors would pledge a family member as surety for a loan; the pawn would then become a dependent in the creditor’s household, working his fields or tending to his household chores – their persons acting as security and their labour, effectively, substituting for interest. Still, there are clear signs of a historic connection: for instance, if a girl was pledged, the creditor generally had the option of marrying her when she reached maturity, thus cancelling the debt, exactly as among the Lele. And critically, pawns were clearly distinguished from slaves. The difference only became blurred once it became the custom for the masters of slaving ships, on advancing goods to their African counterparts, to demand pawns – for instance, two of the merchants’ own dependents for every three slaves to be delivered, preferably, including at least one or two members of the merchants’ families (Lovejoy and Richardson 1999: 349–51; 2001). This was in practice not much different than demanding the surrender of hostages, and at times created major political crises if captains, tired of waiting for delayed shipments, decided to take off with a cargo of pawns instead.

Upriver, debt pawns also played a major part in the trade. In the Cross River region, this trade seems to have had two phases. The first was one of absolute terror and utter chaos, in which raids were frequent, and anyone travelling alone risked being kidnapped by roving gangs of thugs and sold to Calabar. Villages lay abandoned; many fled into the forest; men would have to form armed parties to work the fields (Equiano 1789: 6–13). This period was relatively brief. The second began when representatives of local merchant societies began establishing themselves in communities up and down the region, offering to restore order. The most famous of these was the Aro Confederacy, who, calling themselves ‘Children of God’, and backed by heavily armed mercenaries and the prestige of their famous Oracle at Arochukwu, created their own justice system, with the Oracle acting as a kind of regional court of high appeal (see Jones 1939; Ottenberg 1958; Afigbo 1971; Ekejiuba 1972; Isichei 1976; Northrup 1978; Dike and Ekejiuba 1990; Nwauwa 1991). This system was notoriously harsh, and itself seems to have functioned above all to either reduce as many villagers as possible into slavery by judicial means, or to assign penalties (always denominated in brass rods) so hefty that culprits would be forced to sell themselves or members of their families into slavery.

These same merchant societies also assisted in the dissemination of a secret society called Ekpe, most famous for sponsoring magnificent masquerades and for initiating its members into arcane mysteries, but that also acted as a covert mechanism for the enforcement of debts. In Calabar itself, the Ekpe society operated primarily as a means of enforcing contracts and collecting debts (Latham 1973: 38). But it was open to anyone willing to pay the hefty initiation fees – which were also exacted in the brass rods the merchants themselves supplied. In the town the fee schedule for each grade looked like this (from Walker 1875: 120):

In town, membership became the chief mark of honour and distinction. Entry fees were no doubt less exorbitant in small, distant communities, but the effect was the same: thousands ended up in debt to the merchants, whether for the fees required for joining, or for the trade goods they supplied (mostly cloth and metal put to use creating the equipment and costumes for the Ekpe performances), debts that they thus themselves became responsible for enforcing on themselves. These debts, too, were regularly paid in people, ostensibly, yielded up as pawns. But in these cases the line between pawns and slaves soon became effectively non-existent.

In the countryside, practices varied. In many areas, copper rods became general purpose money. In the Afikpo district (Ottenberg and Ottenberg 1962: 124), on a remote part of upper Cross River, we learn that copper bars, supplied by the merchant societies, were not used to buy food but restricted to social purposes, ‘for gifts and for payments in funerals, titles, and other ceremonies’. Most of those payments, titles and ceremonies however were tied to the secret societies that the merchants themselves had brought to the area:

In the old days, if anybody got into trouble or debt in the upper parts of the Cross River, and wanted ready money, he used generally to ‘pledge’ one or more of his children, or some other members of his family or household, to one of the Akunakuna traders who paid periodical visits to his village. Or he would make a raid on some neighboring village, seize a child, and sell him or her to the same willing purchaser. (Partridge 1905: 72)

The passage only makes sense if one recognises that debtors were also, owing to their membership in the secret societies, also the debt collectors. The seizing of a child can only be a reference to the local practice of ‘panyarring’, current throughout West Africa, by which creditors despairing of repayment would simply sweep into the debtor’s community with a group of armed men and seize anything – people, goods, domestic animals – that could be easily carried off, then hold it hostage as security. It was actually a quite sensible expedient in an environment with no central authority, where people tended to feel an enormous sense of responsibility towards other members of their community, and very little responsibility towards anyone else. In the case cited above, the debtor would, presumably, be calling in his own debts – real or imagined – to those outside the organisation, in order not to have to send members of his own family.

Such expedients were not always effective. Often debtors would be forced to pawn more and more of their own children or dependents, until finally, there was no recourse but to pawn themselves (Harris 1972: 128). And of course, at the height of the slave trade, ‘pawning’ had become little more than a euphemism. The distinction between pawns and slaves had largely disappeared. Debtors, like their families before them, ended up turned over to the Aro, then to the British, and finally, shackled and chained, crowded into tiny slaving vessels, and sent off to be sold in plantations across the sea.

∗

If the Tiv, then, were haunted by the vision of an insidious secret organisation that lured unsuspecting victims into debt traps, whereby they themselves became the enforcers of debts to be paid with the bodies of their children, and ultimately, themselves – one reason was because this was, literally, happening to people who lived no more than a few hundred miles away. Nor is the use of the phrase ‘flesh debt’ especially inappropriate. Slave-traders might not have been reducing their victims to meat, but they were certainly reducing them to nothing more than bodies.

What was remarkable that all this was done, the bodies extracted, through the very mechanisms of the human economy, premised on the principle that human lives are the ultimate values, to which nothing could possibly compare. Instead, all the same institutions – fees for initiations, means of calculating guilt and compensation, social currencies, debt pawnship – were turned into their opposite; the machinery was, as it were, thrown into reverse; and, as the Tiv also perceived, the very gears and mechanisms designed for the creation of human beings collapsed on itself, and became the means for their destruction.

As the above examples reveal, the change could only be effected by violence – in the case of the Atlantic slave trade, what is almost certainly the greatest and most catastrophic outbreaks of commercial violence in the history of the world. Yet at the same time, I think the very intensity of the catastrophe can help lay bare some of the mechanisms by which human economies could have, in many other times and places in human history, overcome the conceptual barriers between social currencies, as tokens of a debt that cannot be paid, and commercial currencies, as means of cancelling debts in their entirety. One thing is clear: the change was effected by violence. Above all, it was only violence that could rip a human being entirely from the web of unique human relations that thereby made her a unique individual, a daughter, sister, wife, lover, friend, so as to make her the exact equivalent of anyone else. But of course, this violence was already present even when lives could only be equivalent to other lives. Among the Lele, men could not be compelled to do anything they did not agree to do, but women could still be beaten if they completely refused to comply with the system that rendered them exchangeable. Among the Tiv, Akiga Sai is even more explicit:

Under the old system an elder who had a ward could always marry a young girl, however senile he might be, even if he were a leper with no hands or feet; no girl would dare to refuse him. If another man were attracted by his ward he would take his own and give her to the old man by force, in order to make an exchange. The girl had to go with the old man, sorrowfully carrying his goat-skin bag. If she ran back to her home her owner caught her and beat her, then bound her and brought her back to the elder. The old man was pleased, and grinned till he showed his blackened molars. ‘Wherever you go,’ he told her, ‘you will be brought back here to me; so stop worrying, and settle down as my wife.’ The girl fretted, till she wished the earth might swallow her. Some women even stabbed themselves to death when they were given to an old man against their will; but in spite of all, the Tiv did not care. (1939: 161)

Anthropologists have spent much of the 20th century studying kinship systems, often creating elaborate and elegant diagrams to understand what Le´vi-Strauss so famously called ‘the exchange of women’ (1949). It was only after feminist authors like Gayle Rubin (1975) began to point out just how coercive such systems ultimately are, how much violence lay beneath them, that anthropologists suddenly seem to have concluded that the entire subject was no longer particularly interesting. Yet it would appear that it is precisely through elaborating on this underlying violence, through the transformation of pawns into peons, for example, that systems of debt could begin to take what we would now consider commercial form: that is, as a series of quantifiable, fully exchangeable equivalents, and that social currencies could become money in the familiar sense of the term.

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seabreeze2022 · 5 months ago

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Wales day 6 and 7, August 2024.

Today we trek to a Castle in Caernarfon on the Wales mainland. Neil and Beverley have seen this multiple times so they did some shopping in town while Nancy and I did a 1 hour self guided tour.

Neat little town, this was a four day weekend and it was busy.

You can’t go to Caernarfon without going to the “Black Boy Inn.” As the sign says, built in 1522. Making it one of the oldest pubs in Wales. To pit in perspective, 254 years before America was founded.

This is the front door.

Neil and Nancy bellying up to the bar while putting in our order of Guinness.

Round two….

Wales is known for their love of poetry. They have a yearly competition where the winner is presented with a one of a kind hand built chair. Here I am sitting in one from a bygone era.

From the “Black Boy Inn” we headed to a great Indian food dinner. I thought it a bit strange that a sign in the entry said “no personal sodas allowed.” Turns out being muslim they did not sell alcohol. So you were allowed to bring in your own beer, just not sodas.

Day 7 morning walk. One of many wild flowers, vines and blackberries along the walk.

Neil’s twin sister Janet and her son’s dog joined us for the walk this morning. The day prior we ran into one of Neil’s neighbors near Saint Ceidio’s Church. She mentioned she had the key to the church and helped keep an eye on it. When stopped at her house and retrieved the key that day. She was kind enough to invite us in. She and her husband had taken an old water mill that was in ruins and rebuilt a beautiful house out of it. So today we will get inside of the church.

This church is a 19th century church built on a site that may have been used as a church as long ago as 630 ad. This church was rebuilt using the stones from a 14 th century church previously sitting here.

West wall with its bellcote.

Neil with the key to the door. The round headed doorway may be from the 14th century.

This church has not been in use for many years. So we had to knock down several spiderwebs. Neil made himself at home in the pulpit. Which he had also done in the church in New Bedford, Mass. Which was featured in the movie Moby Dick.

In the back of the church was a stretcher used to carry caskets to the graveyard.

An inscription on slate in the memory of a 21 year old who died in 1802.

Dropped the key off at the old mill which is now a house.

Janet, Charlie and Nancy checking a pasture on the way home. Hurry up we don’t want to miss tea time!

After lunch we drove to the north shore of Anglesey to look at this lighthouse on the point to the right.

Point Lynas lighthouse is very unique. Since it is plenty high to see from the sea. It is built into the wall of the building with light only visible for 180 degrees.

The walk to the lighthouse.

The gate leading to the lighthouse. There are a couple of rooms that you can rent here. Not sure how nice those expensive rooms would be when the fog horn sounds.

Here is the actual light. There is a modern radar antenna, and anemometer on the roof. The ship pilots used this point to help ships getting to Liverpool. The pilot station was built in 1776. This light was built in 1835 which is visible for 18 nautical miles.

A heather covered hillside leading to the water. One seal was visible nearby.

Windy out here on the point.

View from the point back towards the lighthouse.

Neil in the heather.

Neil working the lath in his shop, which he let Nancy try her hand at. One more night watching “Rawhide” then we leave on the ferry the next day for Dublin. What a great vacation, thanks to Neil and Beverley Gadsby.

#seabreeze2022 #seabreeze2023

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