<div dir="ltr"><br><br><div class="gmail_quote"><div dir="ltr">---------- Forwarded message ---------<br>From: <b class="gmail_sendername" dir="auto">Steve Voce</b> <span dir="ltr"><<a href="mailto:stevevoce@virginmedia.com">stevevoce@virginmedia.com</a>></span><br>Date: Tue, 16 Oct 2018 at 11:02<br>Subject: Re: [Dixielandjazz] Wild Bill<br>To: Marek Boym <<a href="mailto:marekboym@gmail.com">marekboym@gmail.com</a>><br></div><br><br>
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<p>Could you forward this to the group and see where it goes?</p>
<p>Steve<br>
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<div class="m_-6992579896600948851moz-cite-prefix">On 15/10/2018 19:49, Marek Boym wrote:<br>
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<div dir="ltr">Apparently that's what happens - I've just found
this in my spam folder, while an email addressed just to me
ended up in inbox.<br>
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<div dir="ltr">On Mon, 15 Oct 2018 at 18:19, Steve Voce <<a href="mailto:stevevoce@virginmedia.com" target="_blank">stevevoce@virginmedia.com</a>>
wrote:<br>
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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="m_-6992579896600948851m_-2623855554496410369moz-forward-container">Bill
jumped up again.</div>
<div class="m_-6992579896600948851m_-2623855554496410369moz-forward-container"> "He's
two ***holes." <br>
He sat down again, beaming.<br>
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