“The Lemon Song? Oh, that’s an interesting story, that… Jimmy [Page] and I were drunk as lords and, erm… [laughs] the song is very sexual in nature. Jimmy gave me a handjob when we were both drunk, and I was about to cum but I started urinating. Only a little bit, it was running down my leg. So we thought it was hilarious and decided to write a song about it. Of course, nothing like this ever happened again.”
— Robert Plant (Led Zeppelin) in 1989 (via thedarklordjimmypage)
Happy fiftieth anniversary to Queen’s trip to Ridge Farm, aka the best summer youth club holiday ever. A few weeks of writing, playing tennis, reading, pushing each other into the swimming pool, taking photos, playing pool, nipping out to the pub for a drink, and generally having a perfect time. Oh, and just happening to write what would become A Night At The Opera and all its fabulous songs…
I hereby declare this
Ridge Farm Summer
Share all the photos and all the stories!
And then they went to Rockfield and we can do the same for that too!
Also amazing: we have all now lived through the Queen fandom since its Bohemian Rhapsody renaissance as long as Brian and Roger lived through since they first met to when they made the album that moved them into the super league of rock stardom.
people saying “how can someone as gay as Freddie Mercury write Fat Bottomed Girls” (or worse yet, using it as “evidence” that he was bi) is one of my favorite things because I get to say “actually, Brian May wrote Fat Bottomed Girls” and then they’re like “ohhh, so it’s totally heterosexual well that makes sense then” and then I get to hit ‘em with “oh no, he also wrote it about men.” It’s the little joys in life
Brian also worries about the way he looks onstage. His favorite colors are black and white, which have just the right dramatic effect. His best-known stage costume is the flowing tunic which was designed for him by the famous designer Zandra Rhodes. And on the last tour, he wore a beautiful doublet top he’d commissioned himself.
"It was an exact replica of an Elizabethan top I saw in the Victoria and Albert Museum,” he said, “I liked it so much that I commissioned a designer to make me one like it. It was really beautiful. It took months to make and it cost me a fortune, but I think it was worth it!”
- Jackie magazine, March 27th 1976, x
(Brian on stage in Detroit, USA, February 11, 1976. Queenlive.ca; photo credit: Robert Alford)
(Brian on stage in Santa Monica, USA, March 9, 1976. Queenlive.ca)
I love that he commissioned this look himself! I’ve always wondered if the idea for this outfit was his, or Zandra’s or Freddie’s. He. Looks.Phenomenal. wearing it, so good! He always says how he hasn’t got any fashion sense but he has a definite eye for style and his 70s looks both on and off stage were fantastic.
Even though I’m taking that Jackie Magazine quote with a pinch of salt (they’re not exactly reliable) I had to search V&A collections to see if there was anything that would be an “exact replica” of this. Well, not in the Elizabethan garments even though he claims that his inspo was an Elizabethan doublet. If we’re nitpicking here (I am, when it comes to clothes, always) a doublet is a fitted, waist lenght man’s jacket (though women too wore doublety bodices) with buttons down the front and long sleeves the poofiness of which depends on the decade during the Elizabethan era.
This Zandra creation looks like a partlet at best, and even that stretches the imagination... A partlet is women’s little shirting piece that had a collar; it could have been worn under the bodice to fill out the neckline for modesty and a LOOK, or, made out of a sturdier fabric, on top of the bodice for warmth, and a LOOK obviously.
Now, as I have a problem when it comes to fashion history, I also did a quick search through the V&A collection through other eras up to the 1930s and the closest I got with this particular look were mid-VIctorian (ca. 1860s) ladies’ bodices and jackets.
This 1862 black lace jacket is a contender imo
...as is this 1860 dressing jacket
Of course, the V&A collection has changed over the years and it may be that the exact piece that Brian claims as his inital inspiration has been sold, or it has disintegrated as older pieces do. Also, I don’t think that V&A has their entire collection digitised. But I digress. Zandra Rhodes herself has said how Brian’s black and white bolero was a version of her ladies’ evening jacket in her original Indian Feather Sunspray pattern fabric, as her collection includes the same style (though with longer bodice) in various colours:
Early/mid 1970s George and FTM reader being all domestic and sweet in the morning while they do their morning routines in Friar park! 😊
sunlight on tile | george harrison x male (ftm) reader
𐙚 summary ; a quiet morning at friar park. george looks at you like you hung the stars.
𐙚 note ; thank you so much for this cute prompt rubbing my feet together like a cricket. also tried to make this as accurate to the 70s as i could... eeek!!
The sun came in like it always did through the tall windows of Friar Park, half golden, half polite. Not too harsh, just warm enough to cut the morning chill.
You blinked awake before George did. That was rare. Usually, it was his voice, low and gravelly from sleep, that roused you. This time, it was the quiet rustle of ivy brushing against glass and the soft weight of the duvet wrapped loosely around your waist.
You stretched, shoulders cracking faintly, and smiled at the sight next to you: George, a mess of dark curls and tangled sheets, one arm flopped over where your body had just been.
His face was relaxed, lips slightly parted. Peaceful. For someone who lived so much of his life under a microscope, he always looked most himself like this. Bare-faced, sun-dappled, and tucked against your old flannel pillowcase like it was made of clouds.
You slipped out of bed carefully, tugging a worn cotton T-shirt over your chest as you padded out barefoot. The shirt was his, soft and faintly stretched from years of use.
The bathroom tiles were cool on your feet as you leaned over the sink. George had left the window cracked the night before, it was his thing, always needing “a bit o’ breeze.” It let the early chill roll through the space, and you braced your arms against the sink, rubbing at the stubble coming in on your jaw before reaching for your toothbrush.
You didn’t hear him at first, he moved quiet when he wanted, but the mirror gave him away. That mess of curls poking into view, followed by a shirtless stretch and a sleepy murmur.
“Y’left me,” George mumbled, voice gravel and fog.
You snorted, mouth half full of foam. “You were snoring.”
“I was breathin’,” he said, stepping in close behind you. His arms slid around your waist, palms warm against the hem of the shirt. “Missed you.”
You spat, rinsed, leaned back into him. “Was gone five minutes.”
“Makes no difference.”
You could feel his mustache graze your neck. He pressed a kiss just beneath your ear and then rested his chin on your shoulder, watching your reflection with hooded eyes.
The quiet between you was easy. Familiar. He hummed low in his throat, the same hum he did when tuning his guitar. You rubbed at your jaw with a towel, glancing down at his hands, one hooked under your shirt, fingertips lightly brushing your chest like a thoughtless little ritual.
“You’re freezin’,” he muttered, nuzzling into your shoulder. “Feet on ice. C’mere.”
He tugged you gently back into the bedroom and collapsed onto the bed, pulling you with him. You grunted at the impact, but he was already rolling onto his side, arm across your middle again, his nose nudging into your neck like he hadn’t just let you go five minutes ago.
“You’ve gone clingy.”
“You’ve gone sexy,” he whispered back, eyes still mostly shut. “’S not my fault. I live with the most handsome bloke here.”
You rolled your eyes and snorted into his hair. “Bit bold for someone who hasn’t brushed their teeth.”
“You kissed me yesterday after I had Marmite.”
“That’s different.”
He grinned into your collarbone, hand sliding up under your shirt again, over the soft slope of your stomach, the terrain of your chest. You let him touch. You always let him touch.
“You’re gonna make me fall asleep again,” you said.
“Good.”
“I’ve got work.”
“No y’don’t,” he said, kissing your sternum through the fabric. “You’ve got me.”
You lay there for a moment, breathing in sync. A bird warbled outside, some lilting morning song. Somewhere in the kitchen, the old kettle clicked on, probably the faulty socket again.
“I’ll make tea,” you mumbled eventually.
George groaned dramatically. “Don’t leave me again.”
“You can come supervise.”
“I’ll come ogle you.”
You snorted, detangling from him with a playful shove. “Pervert.”
He sat up slowly, blinking, hair sticking out in every direction.
Downstairs, the kitchen tiles were warmer. George plucked tea bags from the tin while you filled the kettle.
You stood by the counter, two mugs waiting, George leaning lazily into your side. His hand brushed yours. Yours didn’t pull away.
“Married mornings,” he mumbled into your shoulder, yawning. “That’s what this is.”
“We’re not married.”
“Mm,” he said, nudging your temple with his nose. “Yet.”
You didn’t answer right away. The kettle started up with a low rumble. George stretched behind you, popping his back with a wince and a groan like an old man. His shirt was still upstairs. You could see the fading scar near his collarbone, the place he’d once told you he got clipped on a wild motorcycle detour in France. You liked it. It made you feel like you weren’t the only one with topography.
He caught you looking and winked. “You’re makin’ it wrong,” he said, voice syrupy and useless with sleep.
“No I'm not.”
“S’posed to pour in a spiral. Makes the leaves open up.”
“Are you a kettle now?”
“Might be. Got steam in me.” He yawned, one hand rubbing his stomach like it had complaints. “Need breakfast. Got that nice toast left?”
You nodded toward the breadbox. He was already halfway there, rummaging like a raccoon. You liked watching him in the kitchen. He made a mess without meaning to. Always left the sugar lid off, always dropped a trail of crumbs like he was tracking himself.
You passed him his mug wordlessly, and he kissed your shoulder in return.
“Thanks,” he mumbled, curling fingers around the ceramic. “Perfect every time.”
You sat across from each other at the long wooden table, feet touching under the bench. You buttered your toast. George just piled it all on, jam, then marmalade, then more jam like a war crime.
“What’re you up to today?” you asked, biting into the crust.
He made a vague motion. “Think the gardener’s lad wants me to help him check the pond... reckons he saw a frog the size of his hand in there yesterday.”
You snorted. “He’s gonna want a tank.”
“Already said no. Though between you and me, I’d rather leave the frogs to it. We’ve enough life in this place already...” He gave you a sidelong glance, grin tugging at his mouth. “Suppose I don’t need another thing croakin’ at me.”
“Rude.”
He grinned behind his toast. “Oi-you hear back from that bloke in London?”
You paused. “Yeah. Letter came last week.”
George nodded. He chewed his bite, swallowed. “And?”
You swallowed. “He says he might be able to help. Wants me to come in. Talk it through. See if he can sort a prescription. Could take months, even. But it’s something.”
George tilted his head. “Months? What d’you need months for? It’s not like they’re diggin’ up the medicine out the garden.”
You huffed, shoulders sagging. “Don’t ask me. They act like it’s some… trial.”
“Want me to come?”
You looked at him, toast halfway to your mouth. “Wouldn’t mind. Could use someone to remind me I’m not crazy.”
“You’re not.”
You shrugged, but smiled. “Might be boring.”
“Still wanna sit next to you while you get prodded. I like your ‘serious patient’ face.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. All ‘hm, yes, I understand’ while makin’ eyes at the nurse.”
“Never made eyes at the nurse.”
“She wrote her number on your aftercare pamphlet that one time you had a stomach ache.”
You burst out laughing, tea halfway up your nose. “She did not.”
“She bloody well did. I saw it. Little heart next to it too. Thought I was gonna have to fight a woman in scrubs.”
You reached across the table and gripped his hand. “Stop making things up. She wouldn’t even stand a chance.”
George snorted then, unable to keep a straight face, his grin giving him away. “Alright. Maybe there wasn’t a heart. Or a number. But I still would’ve fought her, just in case.”
He looked at you after, eyes crinkled. He didn’t need to say anything when he looked at you like that. It was all in the crease of his smile and the thumb he slid over your knuckles.
Later, you wandered the place. You were lying on your back on the floor, staring at the ceiling. George was flipping through a guitar magazine, lying sideways across a beanbag like he was boneless.
“You ever think about… changing stuff?” you said, out of nowhere.
George didn’t move. Didn’t tense. He just hummed, like he was thinking. “Sometimes.”
You blinked at the ceiling. “Yeah. Me too.”
He flicked the corner of the page, eyes still scanning. “Change is weird.”
“Mm.”
Silence again. Not awkward, just spacious.
“You look great.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he said, flipping a page. “Always have.”
There was a long pause. A bird flapped loudly somewhere on the roof.
“You’d still fancy me if I turned green and got fangs?” you asked, trying to smirk, voice all play.
“Jesus.” He sat up finally, magazine slumping to his lap. “You could shave your head and change your name to Bartholomew and I’d still wanna snog your face off.”
You stared. “That’s nice.”
“I’m full of surprises.”
You walked over and leaned down, hands on his knees. “Kiss me, then.”
And he did. It was all tea breath and chapstick and the familiar scrape of his stubble.
“You taste like jam.”
“Worth it.” He kissed you again, louder this time. “There. That’s my jam tax.”
You huffed a laugh against his mouth, though you didn’t move away. His hands had found their way to your waist, thumbs pressing lazy little circles through your shirt.
What are songs Paul wrote about John and John wrote about Paul on their solo careers? Can you name all of them, please?
I was gonna cover every suspected Mclennon song, BUT that would take ages because also every song, depending on how you read them can have some kind of hidden mclennon story behind it. So here are the confirmed or partially confirmed mclennon songs from the Lennon and McCartney Discography. (If I missed any please feel free to add it in with the quote/story that backs it up! )
