– thank you.’
‘So you’re all from London, then you must know Mrs Jones – and is it still foggy?’
Foggy! The provincial American’s view of London was usually derived from daytime TV and regularly repeated old Sherlock Holmes movies.
‘Yes, madam, we are still engulfed by a pea-souper of a fog, it’s all in black and white and they still haven’t caught Jack the Ripper, you know.’
‘Really…? But I just love yer accent – it’s so neat! Would you say something for me – in British?’
I’m not Rex Harrison, love!
‘OK, here’s something in my best British accent – how about getting the beer I ordered, I’m dying of thirst!’
Inquisitive locals always approached with the same gambit: ‘Are you guys a band?’
Now, as the crew, we were getting tired of the constant implications that we might be wimpy musicians, so would reply, ‘No, we’re welders from Cincinnati.’
‘Oh really, that’s great – are you in town for some kind of convention?’
‘Yeah, something like that.’
‘No… you’re kidding me? You guys are English, right?’
‘Correct.’
‘You MUST be a band – the Beatles were English, you know?’
‘Really, madam, that is fascinating, actually you are right – we are a band.’
‘See, I told you I could tell. What are you guys all called?’
‘We are Harry Stomper and the Snot Gobbling Fuck Pigs From Wigan.’
‘Harry Stomper? Huh – would I know anything you’ve done?’
‘No I doubt it, we’re an underground band.’
‘Oh… well have a nice day now, won’t you.’
The penny drops…
‘Hey, you guys, you’ve been kidding me – you’re all Queen – right?’
(The Queen T-shirts, jackets, stage passes and headbands we wore being a bit of a clue.)
‘No – we work for Queen.’
‘Great band! I just love that “Stairway To Heaven” of theirs – didn’t know they were English though. OK – now tell me, that singer, Mercury is it? He’s a fag – right?’
‘No, no – it’s all an act,’ we whisper back. ‘He just has a keen interest in motorcycles. And their gangs.’
‘Yeah – figured so, he’s such a cute-looking guy in that black leather – great butt too – can I git yah another beer?’
‘Sure – and would you like to see the show tomorrow night?’
‘Wow – you bet! And I get off in an hour, and… if you’re not busy at all.’
‘No – I think I have some spare time on my hands…’
It is quite remarkable how many people never knew Fred was gay – or didn’t want to believe it. Some never will. And of course what did it matter if he was?
Somebody famous – Oscar Wilde? (He was) Or maybe Mark Twain? (Don’t know) It could have been George Bernard Shaw? (Good mates with Lawrence of Arabia…) Who knows, but it was definitely one of them – once said that America and England were countries divided by a common language.
‘Fags’ being a classic example. To us in the UK they are cigarettes – to Americans it means gay men. Many is the time I have asked if I could ‘have a fag’ – or requested ‘what kind of fags do you have?’
As virtually the entire crew smoked, we had to find an alternative to our normal brand of smokes when the 200 duty-free Benson and Hedges King Size ran out. Winston or Marlboro were the preferred choices, and occasionally Kool menthols. But don’t ask for 20 Winston in the USA – you’ll get a weird look from the shopkeeper.
‘You sure?’
‘Yeah – 20 Winston, or actually I’ll have 40.’
‘You got the money?’ he asked suspiciously.
‘Of course?’ It was only a couple of dollars.
It then became clear that in the USA you ask for a ‘pack’ of cigarettes, not the number inside.
After an early-morning ciggie it was time for breakfast.
Having Breakfast in America (credit to Supertramp) was a sharp introduction to the stateside lifestyle. Many restaurants and coffee shops enjoyed a new-world maître d’ system where you had to ‘Wait To Be
‘So you’re all from London, then you must know Mrs Jones – and is it still foggy?’
Foggy! The provincial American’s view of London was usually derived from daytime TV and regularly repeated old Sherlock Holmes movies.
‘Yes, madam, we are still engulfed by a pea-souper of a fog, it’s all in black and white and they still haven’t caught Jack the Ripper, you know.’
‘Really…? But I just love yer accent – it’s so neat! Would you say something for me – in British?’
I’m not Rex Harrison, love!
‘OK, here’s something in my best British accent – how about getting the beer I ordered, I’m dying of thirst!’
Inquisitive locals always approached with the same gambit: ‘Are you guys a band?’
Now, as the crew, we were getting tired of the constant implications that we might be wimpy musicians, so would reply, ‘No, we’re welders from Cincinnati.’
‘Oh really, that’s great – are you in town for some kind of convention?’
‘Yeah, something like that.’
‘No… you’re kidding me? You guys are English, right?’
‘Correct.’
‘You MUST be a band – the Beatles were English, you know?’
‘Really, madam, that is fascinating, actually you are right – we are a band.’
‘See, I told you I could tell. What are you guys all called?’
‘We are Harry Stomper and the Snot Gobbling Fuck Pigs From Wigan.’
‘Harry Stomper? Huh – would I know anything you’ve done?’
‘No I doubt it, we’re an underground band.’
‘Oh… well have a nice day now, won’t you.’
The penny drops…
‘Hey, you guys, you’ve been kidding me – you’re all Queen – right?’
(The Queen T-shirts, jackets, stage passes and headbands we wore being a bit of a clue.)
‘No – we work for Queen.’
‘Great band! I just love that “Stairway To Heaven” of theirs – didn’t know they were English though. OK – now tell me, that singer, Mercury is it? He’s a fag – right?’
‘No, no – it’s all an act,’ we whisper back. ‘He just has a keen interest in motorcycles. And their gangs.’
‘Yeah – figured so, he’s such a cute-looking guy in that black leather – great butt too – can I git yah another beer?’
‘Sure – and would you like to see the show tomorrow night?’
‘Wow – you bet! And I get off in an hour, and… if you’re not busy at all.’
‘No – I think I have some spare time on my hands…’
It is quite remarkable how many people never knew Fred was gay – or didn’t want to believe it. Some never will. And of course what did it matter if he was?
Somebody famous – Oscar Wilde? (He was) Or maybe Mark Twain? (Don’t know) It could have been George Bernard Shaw? (Good mates with Lawrence of Arabia…) Who knows, but it was definitely one of them – once said that America and England were countries divided by a common language.
‘Fags’ being a classic example. To us in the UK they are cigarettes – to Americans it means gay men. Many is the time I have asked if I could ‘have a fag’ – or requested ‘what kind of fags do you have?’
As virtually the entire crew smoked, we had to find an alternative to our normal brand of smokes when the 200 duty-free Benson and Hedges King Size ran out. Winston or Marlboro were the preferred choices, and occasionally Kool menthols. But don’t ask for 20 Winston in the USA – you’ll get a weird look from the shopkeeper.
‘You sure?’
‘Yeah – 20 Winston, or actually I’ll have 40.’
‘You got the money?’ he asked suspiciously.
‘Of course?’ It was only a couple of dollars.
It then became clear that in the USA you ask for a ‘pack’ of cigarettes, not the number inside.
After an early-morning ciggie it was time for breakfast.
Having Breakfast in America (credit to Supertramp) was a sharp introduction to the stateside lifestyle. Many restaurants and coffee shops enjoyed a new-world maître d’ system where you had to ‘Wait To Be
Similar Books
