January 4, 2011

Sad about Pete Postlethwaite. Always good to see a haggard British actor stealing a scene from a bunch of plastic Hollywood faces.

We saw him once, me and Steven, in a Shropshire country pub. It was a Sunday lunchtime and he was propping up the bar looking like a permanent fixture. Which he probably was.

We’d just been for a walk in the hills and had worked up a bit of an appetite, so we ordered that hearty British dish braised faggots in gravy.

We made ourselves comfortable at a table by the window. Eventually a woman appeared bearing a couple of plates.

“TWO FAGGOTS,” she bellowed and looked around the room with a questioning air.

There was a slight pause before we gingerly raised our hands.


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