And then there was the time...

[ysobelle]

...I stood in a pub with Ian Dury, both of us laughing at the fact we were having a complete conversation without being able to understand half of what the other person was saying. His accent was so very thick-- Cockney, and very fast. I don't know what the hell he thought of my accent-- boring, I'd suppose. But we laughed. It was right after his play at the Royal Court. Emily was getting friendly with one of the actors, who'd-- no shit-- mimed, "You wanna get a drink after?" to her while still on stage, and her in the front row. Christ, that was a year. She wound up somewhere in the back of the pub with him, and I stood in another corner with the playwright-- Ian.

He was fabulous. Straight-ahead, no-bullshit, pain in the ass. He must've not yet been ill when we met, though he's been gone eight years now. God speed, Renaissance Punk.

Comments

[murcury.livejournal.com]

Here's Ian reading, with pictures of scantily-clad youtube women. Minimize if you must.

[ysobelle.livejournal.com]

What the hell...?

Imagine that voice, only much, much slangier, thrown more carelessly around a pub-- teasing, insinuating, perhaps even insulting. But so very alive.

[murcury.livejournal.com]

Bear in mind what else is thrown carelessly around the pub-pints!

I know I get more 'Joisey' when I toss back a few...