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Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in
est_rupert's LiveJournal:
| Monday, September 14th, 2009 | |
| 7:41 pm | All good things must come to an end and now it’s time to finish Rupert Everett and Simon Le Bon in their current incarnations. Both pups will remain in game with new personas and new journals. We’ve loved traveling the road with them but we feel they’ve reached their destination, we’re closing the door on our way out… Simon's new journal will be ![[info]](http://www.journalfen.net/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} simply_simon and Rupert's will be rupert_refined (both still in the process of being set up)We're keeping their old journals up for posterity! If anyone has any backstory with either or both, just shoot us an email and we can discuss! |
| Tuesday, August 11th, 2009 | |
| 9:59 am | Blow, blow, thou winter wind, Thou art not so unkind As man's ingratitude; Thy tooth is not so keen Because thou art not seen, Although thy breath be rude. Heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho! unto the green holly: Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly: Then, heigh-ho! the holly! This life is most jolly. |
| Sunday, August 9th, 2009 | |
| 10:55 pm | I went into a public-'ouse to get a pint o' beer, The publican 'e up an' sez, "We serve no red-coats here." The girls be'ind the bar they laughed an' giggled fit to die, I outs into the street again an' to myself sez I: O it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, go away"; But it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins", when the band begins to play, The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play, O it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins", when the band begins to play. I went into a theatre as sober as could be, They gave a drunk civilian room, but 'adn't none for me; They sent me to the gallery or round the music-'alls, But when it comes to fightin', Lord! they'll shove me in the stalls! For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, wait outside"; But it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide, The troopship's on the tide, my boys, the troopship's on the tide, O it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide. Yes, makin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleep Is cheaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap; An' hustlin' drunken soldiers when they're goin' large a bit Is five times better business than paradin' in full kit. Then it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, 'ow's yer soul?" But it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll, The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll, O it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll. We aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too, But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you; An' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints, Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints; While it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, fall be'ind", But it's "Please to walk in front, sir", when there's trouble in the wind, There's trouble in the wind, my boys, there's trouble in the wind, O it's "Please to walk in front, sir", when there's trouble in the wind. You talk o' better food for us, an' schools, an' fires, an' all: We'll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational. Don't mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face The Widow's Uniform is not the soldier-man's disgrace. For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Chuck him out, the brute!" But it's "Saviour of 'is country" when the guns begin to shoot; An' it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please; An' Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool -- you bet that Tommy sees! |
| Friday, July 31st, 2009 | |
| 10:29 am | Last Post by Carol Ann Duffy In all my dreams, before my helpless sight, He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. If poetry could tell it backwards, true, begin that moment shrapnel scythed you to the stinking mud . . . but you get up, amazed, watch bled bad blood run upwards from the slime into its wounds; see lines and lines of British boys rewind back to their trenches, kiss the photographs from home — mothers, sweethearts, sisters, younger brothers not entering the story now to die and die and die. Dulce — No — Decorum — No — Pro patria mori. You walk away. You walk away; drop your gun (fixed bayonet) like all your mates do too — Harry, Tommy, Wilfred, Edward, Bert — and light a cigarette. There’s coffee in the square, warm French bread and all those thousands dead are shaking dried mud from their hair and queuing up for home. Freshly alive, a lad plays Tipperary to the crowd, released from History; the glistening, healthy horses fit for heroes, kings. You lean against a wall, your several million lives still possible and crammed with love, work, children, talent, English beer, good food. You see the poet tuck away his pocket-book and smile. If poetry could truly tell it backwards, then it would |
| Sunday, July 26th, 2009 | |
| 8:29 pm | We left our hero, Juan, in the bloom Of favouritism, but not yet in the blush; And far be it from my Muses to presume (For I have more than one Muse at a push) To follow him beyond the drawing-room: It is enough that Fortune found him flush Of youth, and vigour, beauty, and those things Which for an instant clip enjoyment's wings. |
| Saturday, July 25th, 2009 | |
| 3:50 pm | In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row That mark our place; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns below. We are the Dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders fields. Take up our quarrel with the foe: To you from failing hands we throw The torch; be yours to hold it high. If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders fields. |
| Thursday, July 23rd, 2009 | |
| 9:49 pm | Youth of delight! come hither And see the opening morn, Image of Truth new-born. Doubt is fled, and clouds of reason, Dark disputes and artful teazing. Folly is an endless maze; Tangled roots perplex her ways; How many have fallen there! They stumble all night over bones of the dead; And feel--they know not what but care; And wish to lead others, when they should be led. |
| Monday, July 20th, 2009 | |
| 8:08 am | PEDICABO EGO VOS ET IRRUMABO Who rests in God's mean flattery now? Your wealth Is but his cunning to make death more hard. Your iron sinews take more pain in breaking. And he has made the market for your beauty Too poor to buy, although you die to sell. Only that he has never heard of sleep; And when the cats come out the rats are sly. Here we are safe till he slinks in at dawn |
| Sunday, July 19th, 2009 | |
| 9:27 pm | Sonnet 11 As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou grow'st In one of thine, from that which thou departest; And that fresh blood which youngly thou bestow'st, Thou mayst call thine when thou from youth convertest. Herein lives wisdom, beauty, and increase; Without this folly, age, and cold decay: If all were minded so, the times should cease And threescore year would make the world away. Let those whom nature hath not made for store, Harsh, featureless, and rude, barrenly perish: Look whom she best endow'd, she gave the more; Which bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty cherish: She carv'd thee for her seal, and meant thereby, Thou shouldst print more, not let that copy die. |
| Saturday, July 18th, 2009 | |
| 8:29 am | Nobody heard him, the dead man, But still he lay moaning: I was much further out than you thought And not waving but drowning. Poor chap, he always loved larking And now he's dead It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way, They said. Oh, no no no, it was too cold always (Still the dead one lay moaning) I was much too far out all my life And not waving but drowning. Stevie Smith |
| Friday, July 17th, 2009 | |
| 7:12 am | Man hands on misery to man They fuck you up, your mum and dad. They may not mean to, but they do. They fill you with the faults they had And add some extra, just for you. But they were fucked up in their turn By fools in old-style hats and coats, Who half the time were soppy-stern And half at one another's throats. Man hands on misery to man. It deepens like a coastal shelf. Get out as early as you can, And don't have any kids yourself. |
| Thursday, July 16th, 2009 | |
| 6:33 am | To Freddie Flintoff... Since there's no help, come, let us kiss and part, Nay, I have done, you get no more of me, And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart, That thus so cleanly I myself can free. Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows, And when we meet at any time again Be it not seen in either of our brows That we one jot of former love retain. Now at the last gasp of Love's latest breath, When, his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies, When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death, And Innocence is closing up his eyes, Now, if thou wouldst, when all have giv'n him over, From death to life thou might'st him yet recover. It's been one helluva ride, you will be sadly missed. Here's hoping you get to play today. |
| Wednesday, July 15th, 2009 | |
| 11:39 am | When the lad for longing sighs, Mute and dull of cheer and pale, If at death's own door he lies, Maiden, you can heal his ail. Lovers' ills are all to buy: The wan look, the hollow tone, The hung head, the sunken eye, You can have them for your own. Buy them, buy them: eve and morn Lovers' ills are all to sell. Then you can lie down forlorn; But the lover will be well. |
| Monday, July 13th, 2009 | |
| 9:35 pm | Public post ... |
| Sunday, April 12th, 2009 | |
| 10:05 pm | Rupert Everett/Simon Le Bon - More High Jinks on the High Seas (backdated to earlier this year) [Later the same day as this] Later that day Rupert leaves Simon reading on deck while he slips down to the cabin to collect a pair of cuffs and a few bits and pieces, nothing heavy, to just remind his boy of certain dos and donts. ( He presses his legs hard into the bed and tries to think of spoiled cheese and dead bodies ) |
| Wednesday, November 12th, 2008 | |
| 9:54 pm | Rupert Everett/Simon Le Bon - En route to the boat, fucking and queer happenings... Took place late October ( The long, lean lines, the smooth skin...Simon's jeans are feeling patently too tight. ) |
| Saturday, March 29th, 2008 | |
| 6:58 pm | Rupert Everett/Simon Le Bon - Breaking Down ( After a two week break in NYC, Simon and Rupert are back on the road. This time, they're in the southern United States for the last leg of Simon's tour) "Is it me?" Rupert is behind the wheel and Simon is in the back dozing. "Caro? Is it me or is the car making strange noises?" ( Bet you say that to all the boys ) |
| Friday, March 14th, 2008 | |
| 9:42 pm | Rupert/Simon - Sex on the Beach Simon and Rupert are on tour and managing to have lots of downtime Behind his dark glasses, Rupert is watching Simon reading. They are lying on a beach by the ocean, the only sound apart from the waves lapping at the shore, is the occasional shrill cry from a passing seagull. ( I live a little all the time ) |
| Wednesday, January 23rd, 2008 | |
| 10:09 pm | Rupert/Simon - Australian Tour - On the Road "You're in charge of music," Rupert pulls out his shades and turns the aircon on. They have decided to drive down to Melbourne, making the most of their time here. The scenery is said to be spectacular and neither are specially keen to get back on a plane until they have to. ( I want to live in London again ) |
| Wednesday, January 16th, 2008 | |
| 11:11 pm | Rupert/Simon - Down Under Simon stretches his back as they wait by the luggage carousel. "Jesus that's a long flight," he mutters, glancing at Rupert. "How's your back doing?" He can hardly believe they're here. Together. Sydney for the start of his first real solo tour. And Rupert by his side. He can scarcely think how things could be better. ( Only you could make wrong turns using GPS ) |