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<p>Maybe, as Marek suggests, the Dixieland filters thought my piece
on Wild Bill unsuitable. Having combed its hair and made it sit up
respectably, I'm trying to send it again.</p>
<p>Steve<br>
</p>
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One night during the ‘40s when Eddie Condon’s New York jazz club
had closed in the small hours, Wild Bill Davison decided that he
was too drunk to drive the 40 miles to his home.<br>
Condon suggested that he should stay the night in the apartment
that Eddie shared with his wife Phyllis. The apartment consisted
of a long corridor with bedrooms off on each side. Phyllis
couldn’t stand the noises that Eddie made in the night, and so
they had separate rooms.<br>
The two men had a few more drinks and then Bill asked Eddie where
he should sleep. “Second on the right,” said Eddie pouring himself
another drink.<br>
Bill found the room and went to bed. When he awoke in the morning
he found Phyllis Condon asleep beside him.<br>
“Hey, Eddie,” Bill said at breakfast. “Did you know I slept with
Phyllis last night?”<br>
“I’m sorry,” said Condon. “I should have said second on the left.”<br>
Back in the Fifties I wrote a piece called "Don't Shoot, We're
American", which was published in some anthologies. These are a
couple of paragraphs from it. At that period Britain had draconian
laws about the time of day that one could buy a drink.<br>
The Eddie Condon mob arrived in town at the unappropriate time of
11 o'clock on a Sunday morning. They kicked and stumbled their way
off the train through a pile of empty whiskey bottles -
"travellin' high" is the phrase, I believe -n and began soliciting
porters for directions to the nearest bar. They were told that all
bars were closed, and their bleary faces paled as though the Wall
Street Crash had just been announced.<br>
Finally we persuaded them to bridge the gap until opening time
with lunch at a Chinese restaurant, although this was an obvious
breach of etiquette - Wil Bill pointed out that he never took food
on an empty stomach.<br>
Once inside the restaurant Condon and Davison each produced a half
of Scotch (how the bottles survived the journey is a mystery).
Bill placed his on his table with great deliberation, causing much
concern to the management. "No drinking please, yes?" asked the
manager hopefully. "No," agreed Bill, opening the bottle. "You got
glasses?"<br>
After a lot of argument glasses were provided ("You drink water,
yes?" "No," agreed Bill politely) and the contents of the bottles
began to disappear into the well-oiled systems of Messrs. Condon
and Davison.<br>
The restaurant was fairly crowded and we had been unable to get
adjacent tables. I was seated with Bill while Condon and his
associates were at the other end of the room.<br>
Bill ordered a fruit salad as a concession to the management to
show that he hadn't simply come to use their glasses. I believe he
did actually eat some of it, but don't remember. I do remember the
whiskey disappearing with an impressive swiftness, and from the
other end of the room the voices of Condon and George Wettling
were raised in mortal debate over who was going to finish the
bottle. Finally the Davison meal was concluded.<br>
Bill wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and got to his
feet. "A lot of people think Eddie Condon is an ***hole," he
announced loudly. The diners fell silent. The manager, with
commendable tact, dropped behind the cash-desk as though he had
been pole-axed.<br>
Condon, looking like a miniature but very angry bull, slowly
lifted himself from his chair at the other end of the room. "How's
that again?" he asked.<br>
"I said a lot of people think Condon's an ***hole." A Chinese
waitress stopped in full flight with two dishes of chow-mein. <br>
"But it's not true," Bill continued. Both Condon and Bill began to
sit down. <br>
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<div class="moz-forward-container">Bill jumped up again.</div>
<div class="moz-forward-container"> "He's two ***holes." <br>
He sat down again, beaming.<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
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