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BlackentheBorg
Banned
Nobody thought they'd actually get away with it.
I mean, there were plenty, bloody plenty, who wanted to boot him out personally (Stormy Thormy, the Eff Be I, squares of all shapes and sizes) but nobody thought Tricky Dicky would actually go ahead and do it.
There’d been a death in the night, unfortunately. Some old yeller called Irving Kaufman – ice of face, warm of heart – a particularly judgy gent from New York. ‘They’ say he was gonna overturn the order, keep him in the country. ‘They’, of course, couldn’t predict such fickle human error. “they” couldn’t foresee a lorry driver dropping his can and taking his eyes off the road for just a few seconds, then – kersplat! No more Irving. And so it was they got another old bugger to sit in his high chair and that was that. Not even a chance to wipe his feet on the way out. Pack your things and ta ra now!
So let it be known to the history books and the geezers that keep them that the Lennon’s lost their battle to stay in the United States purely by shit-out-of-luck-ness, and went back home to England before anyone could come knocking on their apartment. For all his anger and barbs and scathing rants, and everyone else’s (his deportation was seen as a drastic overstep by the Nixon administration). The British tabloids welcomed him home as a felled hero, a David who’d battled the American Goliath. While usually Lennon would’ve relished in the sudden press positivity, the eccentric musician and his more-so wife chose to hold up in the north, somewhere in the dreary moors of Ireland. He wasn’t in the mood – for the press, for the president, for music, not for nothing.
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