Strawberry Fields (nothing is real)

[HanafiH]

On a recent trip up North, in the UK, I fetched up in Liverpool with my kids who decided that what they wanted more than anything else, was to visit the childhood homes of John Lennon and Paul McCartney, both of which have been restored to their original 60s Mop Top splendor. Lennon’s even has a blue plaque.

The thing is I knew full well that both houses are effectively fakes. Having undergone several generations of home improvements, both had to be recreated. In John Lennon’s house is a handful of knick-knacks donated by Yoko Ono, a few photo’s in Paul’s, so I was kind of interested but cynical about it at the same time. This wasn’t helped much by the fact that, apart from an emaciated Japanese woman of about thirty, the tour bus was filled to overflowing with very, very BIG American women, all of a certain age, and west-coast accents.

We did Mendips, John Lennon’s house, first. I snuck out of the introductory talk by the curator, who lives there full time, and went up to John’s bedroom. And there faithfully reproduced was a late fifties schoolboy’s bedroom, replete with a boy’s school cap casually strewn on the end of the bed. That’s a bit deliberate, I thought, when I heard a whelp next to me, and the Japanese woman was standing half crouched, hands in front of her face as if to catch a ball, and tears streaming down her face. She proceded to weep and yelp as she collapsed on her knees before the sacred cap.

I’m getting the f**k out of here, thought I, only at the foot of the stairs was a rugby scrum of fat American women, clutching and hugging each other, each in a tearful reverie of you don’t know how much this means to me and given peace a chance.

But Paul McCartney’s house was where the real freaky stuff started. All the walls in the building have photographs taken by Paul’s brother way back when strategically placed so you can see the very place where Paul sat down next to a drum kit. It was like the Stations of the Cross – do you realise this is the very sink in which his Dad washed Paul’s dirty teenage underwear in a bucket with a stick and here’s the photo to prove it. The house slowly filled with a bubbling weeping.

But then I heard the curator upstairs saying - you can’t lie here, you’ve got to get up love. So I shot up the stairs and there lying in Paul’s very own bed is a twenty stone woman in tears of ecstasy clutching a Rhododendron head she’d snatched from the garden. The curator gets her downstairs and out into the garden where she heaves sobs while clutching the fence. Will she be alright?, asks I, oh yes, says the curator, she’s been here before. Is it like this every day of your life?, I asks him, it’s a wonderful job, he replies.

[endmusik]

someday in the future, this same scene will play out in my apartment.

[Sicklecell666]

On a recent trip up North, in the UK, I fetched up in Liverpool with my kids who decided that what they wanted more than anything else, was to visit the childhood homes of John Lennon and Paul McCartney, both of which have been restored to their original 60s Mop Top splendor. Lennon’s even has a blue plaque.

The thing is I knew full well that both houses are effectively fakes. Having undergone several generations of home improvements, both had to be recreated. In John Lennon’s house is a handful of knick-knacks donated by Yoko Ono, a few photo’s in Paul’s, so I was kind of interested but cynical about it at the same time. This wasn’t helped much by the fact that, apart from an emaciated Japanese woman of about thirty, the tour bus was filled to overflowing with very, very BIG American women, all of a certain age, and west-coast accents.

We did Mendips, John Lennon’s house, first. I snuck out of the introductory talk by the curator, who lives there full time, and went up to John’s bedroom. And there faithfully reproduced was a late fifties schoolboy’s bedroom, replete with a boy’s school cap casually strewn on the end of the bed. That’s a bit deliberate, I thought, when I heard a whelp next to me, and the Japanese woman was standing half crouched, hands in front of her face as if to catch a ball, and tears streaming down her face. She proceded to weep and yelp as she collapsed on her knees before the sacred cap.

I’m getting the f**k out of here, thought I, only at the foot of the stairs was a rugby scrum of fat American women, clutching and hugging each other, each in a tearful reverie of you don’t know how much this means to me and given peace a chance.

But Paul McCartney’s house was where the real freaky stuff started. All the walls in the building have photographs taken by Paul’s brother way back when strategically placed so you can see the very place where Paul sat down next to a drum kit. It was like the Stations of the Cross – do you realise this is the very sink in which his Dad washed Paul’s dirty teenage underwear in a bucket with a stick and here’s the photo to prove it. The house slowly filled with a bubbling weeping.

But then I heard the curator upstairs saying - you can’t lie here, you’ve got to get up love. So I shot up the stairs and there lying in Paul’s very own bed is a twenty stone woman in tears of ecstasy clutching a Rhododendron head she’d snatched from the garden. The curator gets her downstairs and out into the garden where she heaves sobs while clutching the fence. Will she be alright?, asks I, oh yes, says the curator, she’s been here before. Is it like this every day of your life?, I asks him, it’s a wonderful job, he replies.

Did you get a chance to use his shitter?

[soulkraka]

....the tour bus was filled to overflowing with very, very BIG American women, all of a certain age, and west-coast accents.

Now thats a rare site!! you should feel priveleged!!

http://magma.nationalgeographic.com/ngm ... index.html

[opiadream]

you've heard about abundant women,
well this one only aims to please,
outside there's a load of noisy nieghbors,
upstairs there's a polyester squeeze..
...................................John Waters

[xoxos]

congratulations, you've lived someone's most surreal nightmare.

in your autumn years, weep to consider the very one iron loop around your ankle

c'mon, two sets original autographs, uncle was a london taxi driver, how much y'got?