<div dir="ltr"><div class="gmail_default" style="font-size:small">Same thing for me, I received the mail about Wild Bill in my spams, don&#39;t know why</div><div class="gmail_default" style="font-size:small"><br></div><div class="gmail_default" style="font-size:small">Jean-Marc</div></div><br><div class="gmail_quote"><div dir="ltr">Le mar. 16 oct. 2018 à 11:23, Marek Boym &lt;<a href="mailto:marekboym@gmail.com">marekboym@gmail.com</a>&gt; a écrit :<br></div><blockquote class="gmail_quote" style="margin:0 0 0 .8ex;border-left:1px #ccc solid;padding-left:1ex"><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">&lt;<a href="mailto:stevevoce@virginmedia.com" target="_blank">stevevoce@virginmedia.com</a>&gt;</span><br>Date: Tue, 16 Oct 2018 at 11:02<br>Subject: Re: [Dixielandjazz] Wild Bill<br>To: Marek Boym &lt;<a href="mailto:marekboym@gmail.com" target="_blank">marekboym@gmail.com</a>&gt;<br></div><br><br>
  
    
  
  <div text="#000000" bgcolor="#FFFFFF">
    <p>Could you forward this to the group and see where it goes?</p>
    <p>Steve<br>
    </p>
    <br>
    <div class="m_-4105730456084462715m_-6992579896600948851moz-cite-prefix">On 15/10/2018 19:49, Marek Boym wrote:<br>
    </div>
    <blockquote type="cite">
      
      <div dir="ltr">Apparently that&#39;s what happens - I&#39;ve just found
        this in my spam folder, while an email addressed just to me
        ended up in inbox.<br>
      </div>
      <br>
      <div class="gmail_quote">
        <div dir="ltr">On Mon, 15 Oct 2018 at 18:19, Steve Voce &lt;<a href="mailto:stevevoce@virginmedia.com" target="_blank">stevevoce@virginmedia.com</a>&gt;
          wrote:<br>
        </div>
        <blockquote class="gmail_quote" style="margin:0 0 0 .8ex;border-left:1px #ccc solid;padding-left:1ex">
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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&#39;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 &quot;Don&#39;t Shoot,
              We&#39;re American&quot;, 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&#39;clock on a Sunday morning. They kicked and
              stumbled their way off the train through a pile of empty
              whiskey bottles - &quot;travellin&#39; high&quot; 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. &quot;No drinking please, yes?&quot; asked the manager
              hopefully. &quot;No,&quot; agreed Bill, opening the bottle. &quot;You got
              glasses?&quot;<br>
               After a lot of argument glasses were provided (&quot;You drink
              water, yes?&quot; &quot;No,&quot; 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&#39;t simply come to use their
              glasses. I believe he did actually eat some of it, but
              don&#39;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. &quot;A lot of people think Eddie Condon is an
              ***hole,&quot; 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. &quot;How&#39;s that again?&quot; he asked.<br>
                &quot;I said a lot of people think  Condon&#39;s an ***hole.&quot; A
              Chinese waitress stopped in full flight with two dishes of
              chow-mein. <br>
              &quot;But it&#39;s not true,&quot; Bill continued. Both Condon and Bill
              began to sit down.   <br>
            </div>
            <div class="m_-4105730456084462715m_-6992579896600948851m_-2623855554496410369moz-forward-container">Bill
              jumped up again.</div>
            <div class="m_-4105730456084462715m_-6992579896600948851m_-2623855554496410369moz-forward-container"> &quot;He&#39;s
              two  ***holes.&quot; <br>
              He sat down again, beaming.<br>
              <br>
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