#round the mulberry bush

[thepolishlynx]

Round the Mulberry Bush - She's not the Yandere in this story?! [Part 3 ...

[sukipotier]

Suki Potier, Nick Wilson, Annie Sabroux, and Douglas Earle with actor Barry Evans in Here We Go Round the Mulberry Bush (1968) directed by Clive Donner

Suki's appearance is very short, however if you look closely behind the curtains that might have been her <3

[angelo-chuck-wagon]

*Chuck's thoughts: Back into the void again. Alone. Possibly forever. Forgotten. Rotten. Unlovable. Maybe I should give up? Just die here. End it. Nothing matters. It doesn't matter how sorry I am. Doesn't matter what I do. God made me to suffer. Over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over... If it doesn't matter why should I try so hard?*

*Chuck's thoughts: I GIVE UP. I GIVE UP. I GIVE UP. I GIVE UP. No more lunch through a straw. Either I die or Lucifer does! I can't live like this anymore!*

@morningbloodystar @tujhse-raabta

[cannedbluesblog]

Here We Go Round the Mulberry Bush (1968)

[horneboy]

she's gorgeous... and bigger then expected tbh

[hibiscusbabyboy]

1968 - the Year that shaped a Generation

[sayburgundy]

recently, in reds and oranges and so forth 🍊🍅

[schlock-luster-video]

On June 8, 1968, Here We Go Round the Mullberry Bush debuted in France.

[hailsatanacab]

Happy to share! Tbh I don't think it was funny capitalism just yet then, but partially actual environmental concern too, but yeah, capitalism ruins everything.

I have an ex(still a friend, it was a 'to long distance' break up) in the UK that would talk about it and my mulberry loving ass still wants to try blackcurrant gdi

yeah for sure, introducing a plant that contains a fungus that is KNOWN to decimate a local tree population isn't a great move lbr

but still. Fuck capitalism. Blackcurrants are delicious.

[bavanisblog]

"Here We Go Round Mulberry Bush & Sixpence | Kids Nursery Rhyme#youtube...

[thepolishlynx]

Round the Mulberry Bush - She's grown up [Part 2]

[flipchild]

They don't let you say handjob no more, you gotta say you went round and round her mulberry bush and made her weasel pop

[thefab4archive]

On January 4, 1968, Paul McCartney and Jane Asher at the London premiere of the film Here We Go Round The Mulberry Bush, based on a novel by Hunter Davies.

[oneeyed-jacks]

Round and round the mulberry bush

The badger chased the weasel

The badger thought it was all in good fun

But pop! goes the weasel

Why are ya singin’?

[cannedbluesblog]

New Town Stevenage in the 1960s & 70s. They filmed the 1968 movie "Here We Go Round The Mulberry Bush" here (Film still last photo)

[gingerbreadmonsters]

heartless guttersnipe

or: roses are red, violets are, uh...

gn!reader, no content warnings, ultra-sticky gooey fluffy stuff. magenta? i hardly know her! written for sylent for the skyside holiday exchange – hope you’re having a wonderful festive season and a happy new year! inspired by on the street where you live from the musical my fair lady. lasko going round the mulberry bush in 900 words or less.

It’s Saturday afternoon, and it’s the million-dollar question.

Is it weird to like purple paint so much?

Not a conventional question, to be sure. But it’s not as if Lasko has ever been the conventional sort, so that’s probably for the best.

It’s not even really purple – it’s lilac, apparently, which you seem to think is far superior, and he’s not about to try and argue over it.

How has this even happened? Not so long ago, he’d never really thought about lilac at all, the colour or the flower. He never seemed to notice it anywhere, never chose it for any particular reason. It’s not an especially common colour, is it? It certainly wasn’t in his mind, at least, so why would its absence be anything of note?

Not anymore, though. It’s as if it’s everywhere he turns, bright and beautiful, effortlessly drawing his eye like nothing else ever has. Lilac, lilac, lilac. He notices it all the time, something pleased and warm fizzing in his mind every time – it’s like he dreams in lilac, now, the vague impression of some sweet haze drifting through his head. It’s airy, pleasant on his tongue, light and soft like angel cake.

The smell of wisteria, thick and heady. If he were any less sane, he’d think he was going mad.

He’s not upset about it, though. It’s not a bad thing. How can it be? It’s his favourite thing to see, he’s looking forward to it all week. It’s smooth and cold against his fingertips, glossy in the afternoon sunlight, steady and heavy and solid. It’s ringing in his ears, burning in his chest, and his legs ache but he won’t say anything.

Perhaps he’s been right all along. When you put it in so many words, it does seem like a slightly strange obsession. He’s not going to deny it. But that won’t stop him, doesn’t change it – because it’s not actually about the paint at all, is it?

It doesn’t have to be purple. It could be red, it could be green, it could be blue or pink or neon yellow, for all the good it would do him. If all the lilac in the world disappeared tomorrow, why would he care? The colour doesn’t matter – it’s never mattered, not to him, because what really matters is that lilac means… oh, god, it’s because lilac means you.

Orchids blooming under his tongue, delicate lavender that drags him down to sleep. Maybe it’s silly, but it’s true, it’s always been true. Ever since that very first Saturday, hands full of flowers and twenty minutes early, he can’t keep it out of his head.

He keeps coming back, and no matter what he does, it’s always the same. When it’s pouring with rain outside and he’s leaving wet footprints all over the thin carpet in the corridor, when it’s Sunday night and you’ve both got work tomorrow, when the lift is out of order and he’s gasping for air as he staggers up the flight of stairs between the fifth and sixth floors that he swears is steeper than all the others – it’s lilac paint he sees, silent lilac paint that says hello and waves goodbye.

You can’t blame him, can you? Of course it makes his heart race, of course it fills his head with light and his voice with laughter. Lilac paint means he’s here to see you, it means that any minute now, you’ll open the door and wave him inside, and he’ll be swept up in the lovely storm that is your voice, your smile, your hand in his. It’s the pastel background to all his dreams, the brilliant sky at sunset. Blackberry kisses stain his lips like a bruise, sweet wine dripping down his shirt.

Lasko takes a deep breath, shifts his weight, and rings the doorbell.

It’s a very ordinary scene. It happens every day, in every town in every place – the bell rings, and then the door opens. Two moments that come as a pair, and only a tiny gap in between. Anticipation, the lightning flash of nerves, white hot and blinding. The sound of footsteps, slightly muffled, coming closer with every second. There’s no time to think about silly questions, not now, no time to think about anything but what’s on the other side of the door.

Is it weird to like purple paint so much?

Well, perhaps it’s true after all. Perhaps it really is a pointless obsession, a symptom of the lovesickness. The stars in his eyes glitter like amethyst, fingers sticky with plum juice – cut him open and he bleeds violet. Knowing it doesn’t change a thing, because it’s far too late for him, doomed romantic as he is.

The sky is brilliant and blue, and there’s someone on the doorstep, million-dollar questions be damned. It’s bright, it’s sweet, it’s kind. Aubergine, amethyst. It’s glossy paint in the afternoon sun, it’s a handful of flowers in purple paper, and it’s always Lasko Moore, heart in his throat and stomach in knots, staring at a few inches of lilac-painted wood and waiting for you.

this is an original fanwork by @gingerbreadmonsters - please do not repost or misattribute

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