Welcome all to ๐๐ผ๐ป๐ป๐ผ๐น๐น๐โ๐ ๐๐ผ๐ฟ๐ป๐ฒ๐ฟ, a series of weekly reviews by Charles Connolly – an artist in his own right. Here, Charles delves into the greatest brand new singles brought to you by the best unsigned artists on our electrifying and eclectic set of ๐๐๐ฌ ๐ผ๐ง๐ฉ๐๐จ๐ฉ ๐๐ฅ๐ค๐ฉ๐ก๐๐๐๐ฉ playlists.
๐๐ง๐๐ฉ๐ฉ๐ฎ ๐๐ช๐ข๐ข๐ – ๐๐ค๐ช๐ก๐๐ค๐ก๐
Charles is a mummyโs boyโฆ
Just over a week ago was Mothering Sunday, or more commonly known as Motherโs Day. Having induced an almighty heart thump in the American, Australian and Mexican readers, donโt worry – you did not forget. Yours is in May. As for the rest of you around the world, please consult your diary. I only know about England, for I am English. Heart thump for the forgetful Englishโฆ So, on that typically sunny cloudy rainy dry windy still Sunday, I took my mother to lunch in a posh restaurant. No I didnโt. I canโt afford a posh restaurant, and neither had I the foresight to book a table enough in advance even if I COULD have afforded it. Planning is everything. So on the Saturday we spoke on the telephonic communication system, otherwise known these days as a phone. There had always been a lovely old unchanged pub somewhat near where she lives. I used to frequent this drinking hole quite a bit. She had been there MANY years ago – I believe. It was always full of old junk. In a good way. Ancient street signs, original beer and tobacco adverts, stuffed animals and even a beautiful curved backlit stained glass โwindowโ in the corner. Old church pews and cracked green leather banquettes grounded beneath the ornately Rococo-framed portrait of Sir Richard Steele as he peered down at the exciting eccentric hoard with disgrace. The pub had been unimaginatively named in honour of this late 17th century writer: The Sir Richard Steele. Or as we locals called it, The Steeles. It was fabulous. One of my absolute favourite pubs in London, and ever so popular. So what did they do? They closed it and gutted it. Apparently in order to โrefreshโ the appearance and make it โmore appealing to a modern audienceโ. I went back months later after it had reopened, and I almost wept. The beautiful stained glass of which I spake was now the entrance door. I didnโt get much further than that. Cheap pop music blasted through the place in the mid afternoon, as literal toddlers toddled all over the floor. The place was made of cheap purple plastic. Even the floor. They had a bouncer. Ahem, sorry: a doorman. That was new. Didnโt used to be necessary. Kinda shows what kinda clientele they were expectingโฆ I didnโt actually walk in, I just peered around the door, shuddered and left. Before wandering up the road in a dispirited frame of mind, I spoke to the doorman softly with a hand on his shoulder, explaining how it used to be. He replied in kind, hand on mine. He said โTake your hand off my shoulder or Iโllโฆโ – no he didnโt. He said how he had heard so much about the old place and how sad everyone is that itโs gone. It seemed as though he would have loved it. The place was empty, and stayed that way. Hence the inevitable closure not too long after.
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