THE BEAT GOES ON
LONDON—So there I was at Euston station, seated comfortably in the 1st class compartment waiting for the Inter City to speed me to my destination—Liverpool's Lime Street. My thought processes revolved around whether to peruse a copy of the latest Rolling Stone or wade into a hefty-looking biography of John Coltrane.
THE BEAT GOES ON
Murder On The Liverpool Express
LONDON—So there I was at Euston station, seated comfortably in the 1st class compartment waiting for the Inter City to speed me to my destination—Liverpool's Lime Street.
My thought processes revolved around whether to peruse a copy of the latest Rolling Stone or wade into a hefty-looking biography of John Coltrane.
Being a lazy sod, I chose the former. Amongst the usual grist, there was a lengthy and totally inconclusive article on one Elvis Costello. This piece of hardhitting journalism turned out to be a lengthy account of how one of Rolling Stones' staffers had attempted—at no small expense—to procure an interview with the big El, only to be furnished with three quotes.
One was "Fuck off!"
The second was "Piss off!"
"The third was, "Stick it..."