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It began with a simple bacon roll.
Or rather, a “bacon cob”.
Following a moderately successful rehearsal they’d naturally gone to the pub. Primarily in search of food, but with the additional objective of fully inducting their new bassist into the group. It’s still very early, of course, far too early to be optimistic, but so far, at least in Freddie’s mind, the young man has been nothing short of a godsend. Blending well into the bands pre-existing sound, more importantly his outwardly shy demeanour coupled with a surprisingly sharp sense of humour, has so far made him a great counterbalance to some of the… louder personalities in the band.
More than that, there’s an endearing sweetness to him. A sort of soft innocence, that had been never more apparent than when he’d so naively asked for a “bacon cob” with his pint.
“You’re not from around here, are you?” Roger had teased. As if he hadn’t spent a good chunk of his first year in London complaining that nowhere in the city sold a passable Cornish pasty.
John had chuckled, the gap in his teeth on full display as he’d blushed behind his hair. “Is it obvious?” Accepting his drink from Brian with a small smile, he’d clarified, “I’m from Leicester, actually.”
“Ah yeah,” Brian had nodded, his demeanour wise. Knowing. “Your accent, it’s quite Northern, isn’t it?”
John had blinked, taken aback for a fraction of a second. No one could’ve predicted it then, but in hindsight Freddie would pinpoint this specifically as the moment the entire evening had gone downhill.
Still confused, John had hesitated in his reply. Then he had smiled again, raising his glass to his lips, “East Midlands actually.”
And that was when all hell had broken loose.
-
“Roger, is Cornwall south of Birmingham?” Brian demands to know. He’s leaning so far over the table that he’s nearly got his elbows in Freddie’s chips. It’s fitting, seeing as he’s also inadvertently bellowing in Freddie’s ear.
Roger tuts, rolling his eyes. “Obviously, but-“
“Then it’s in-” Brian taps his finger pointedly on the table. If Freddie weren’t so worried about his chips he’d be scolding Brian for nearly knocking his beer over. “-the south”
“Yeah, geographically it’s south.” Roger’s voice wavers in pitch, breaching into the higher end of his range as he frowns. “But Cornish culture, god it’s nothing like Southern culture. There’s different food, art, music… there’s a whole different language for Christ’s-“
“Oh yeah? And you’d know all about that, would you? Tell me, Rog, how much Cornish do you speak?”
Roger’s face turns thunderous, quite possibly on account of the fact that he’s very clearly never spoken a true word of Cornish in his life. Then a spark of something flits over his face. He leans closer to Brian, so close the man can’t possibly miss a single syllable as he proudly declares: “Giss on.” Before sitting back in his chair, arms folded triumphantly.
Brian looks absolutely incredulous. “And that’s real Cornish, is it??”
Forgotten in the corner, Freddie nibbles half-heartedly on a chip. He’s not quite sure when the conversation moved from a simple: “This is where the Midlands are. There’s two of them, West and East”, and into a full on debate over Britain’s cultural landscape, but he lost track around the time Roger had asked if the West counties were in the South. It’s clearly a topic of great importance to them, given they’ve been at this for twenty minutes, but really now. All he’d wanted after a taxing rehearsal was a nice quiet pint among friends. Is that too much to ask?
Freddie sighs to himself as they fall back into bickering . “I was born in Zanzibar,” he murmurs, acutely aware that no one’s paying him any mind. “Fascinating country. Used to be part of the British empire, not that anyone here would know that now…” Looking up, just to assure himself that his remarks have gone unnoticed, he continues, voice raised slightly. “Then of course I went to boarding school in India. Would you believe it? India also has a north and a south… It’s quite bizarre, but actually most countries do...”
“My point is,” steamrolls Brian, so steadfastly he probably wouldn’t notice if Hendrix himself walked in through the door, “everything in Britain is either in the North or the South. Including the Midlands. Sorry, John.”
“But, where you’ve drawn the line... that would put Coventry in the South?” The bassist tilts his head, frowning as he points at the wobbly map Brian had sketched on a napkin. “Even though economically Coventry is...”
And it’s here that Freddie decides he’s finally had enough. He’s not listening to one more word about the economic troubles of post-war, possibly-Midlands, maybe-Southern, could-be-Northern towns that no one gives half a toss about. Dropping his head into his hands he finally succeeds in sighing loudly enough to draw the attention of the group and, more importantly, shut them up for half a second.
“Does this really matter?” he asks, his voice pitching just louder than is perhaps acceptable in a pub, but not without good reason. “For goodness- Surely it’s all Britain at the end of the day?!”
There’s silence.
The trio blink at him, stunned. As if they’ve only just remembered the presence of someone who doesn’t actually care about their petty land disputes. Honestly, at the apex of their argument they’d probably forgotten such people even existed, let alone that one was sitting right here at their table, having to suffer through the entire drawn out debate.
They gape at him, and Freddie can’t help but wonder if perhaps he’s made a grave error. Maybe he should’ve just kept his mouth shut after all. He hadn’t considered the possibility that this could spark yet another tirade about how it absolutely is not all Britain at the end of the day, how dare he suggest such a thing?
It’s a tense moment.
Then Roger shakes his head, chuckling into his beer like he hadn’t just been ready to gut Brian with a chip fork over the Cornish border.
“You’re right. It’s all just one rainy island at the end of the day,” he says. Brian and John are smiling now, too. Although the drummer apparently isn’t ready to concede just yet. Turning to Brian he starts, “But Cornwall is-”
“Roger you say another word and I swear I will spit in your tea every morning until the day you die.” It should be apparent from his tone of voice that he absolutely means every word. Freddie wouldn’t normally result to such vulgarity, but the threat of having to hear so much as another syllable about English geography has driven him to desperate measures.
“Alright, alright.” Roger holds his hands up in surrender and grins as he leans back, stretching his arms casually behind his head and swiping one of Freddie’s chips in the process.
Already irritated, Freddie decides he can’t be bothered to argue over it. They’ve long since gone soggy anyway. Instead, he too leans back, wrestling with the unsurprising beginnings of a headache, and the vague notion that perhaps he should call it a night. Hmm. Maybe he should demand Roger leave with him, pretend he’s forgotten his keys or bus fare. It’d be rude to break up the night so soon, but he’s not so sure his bandmates don’t deserve it…
His plans for petty revenge falter when he notices John’s gaze. The younger man is frowning at him curiously from across the table, head again tilted to one side, as he has a habit of doing when he’s thinking, it seems.
There’s a pause. “What were you saying about growing up in Zanzibar?” he asks.