Post by Beatlemon on Jun 26, 2005 17:05:51 GMT -5
[glow=magenta,2,300]All righty, I have a hunch I've posted this before somewhere way back when. If I have I can't seem to find the thread. Anyway, here's my story (Again, maybe, but I dun know)! Enjoy --- within the limits of British decency! [/glow]
========================================
Sometime in 1963 ....
So it all started innocently enough. George Harrison woke to a bright, hellishly busy day ahead and he had no time to comb his hair. Paul was still snoring away, something of a surprise to George, because Paul would normally be the one to wake up and get everybody on the move.
The young musician looked over to where the rest of his mates were - John was singing off key and intensely scrubbing himself of the sweat accumulated over the two gigs they had done last night. In the shower, not in the little mini kitchenette.
George grinned at that thought and decided it was time to wake Paul up. "Hey, Paul! WAKE UP!" Screw being ‘The Quiet Beatle'!
Well, that should do it, George thought smugly to himself. He was also wondering where the hell Ringo was.
"Aw, leave ‘im alone, George. Can't you see he's had a long night?" John had sauntered over and sat on the edge of the bed and lit a ciggy. Hew was draped in a towel and half naked and his hair was all wet and smelling like shampoo. "I mean with all the jumpin' and shit." He got up and did a mock Twist and Shout jump (amazingly well done, considering his towel was precariously lookse), then went to get some cornflakes from the kitchen without even glancing at his clothes-filled suitcase.
George contemplated again and nodded soberly, then sighed. He was truly exhausted, but had no reason to show any of it to anyone. The tour was one insane fairground after another, with screaming girls and press and journalists, and loud music - but he loved every mad second of it.
It would be the same today for sure. The famous Beatles were everywhere, not just in the North. Even in Europe their fame was spreading. There wasn't a day in the news when the papers failed to mention them. Now, if only they could conquer America - well .... He took a ciggy and bumped a light from John. Now, that would be a nice thought.
Paul was sort of awake now, and it looked like his nose was itchy. He kept twitching it as if he was about to sneeze, but instead opened his bright, soft eyes to see George leaning over him. "Oh, there you are. I had the strangest dream. You'll never believe it."
"Oh, gerrup, Paulie, we're not yer doctor!" John growled from the table. He had his spoon halfway in his mouth and was chowing down as fast as he could. "Were you pretending to be a bunny?"
"Ah, no ... But my nose is really itchy." Paul pulled a scrunchy, agonized face and tried getting his hands from under the blankets. George tried not to think of where the hand had been and stood up to go and have a wash.
Ah, the life of a Beatle. George wished he could be a normal person for all the quid in the world, and he would pay anything just to be away from it all. Suddenly the light popped on and he grinned while brushing his teeth. Why not sneak out? It would do him a world of good.
And there wouldn't be anything wrong with going out for an hour or two. In disguise. With dark shades and quiffed hair and his old leather jacket. He could become a right old Ted and nobody would think anything of it except to stay out of his way.
The gig was at 8.00 PM and it was only 7:30 in the morning. Nothing was really scheduled except that silly NEMS interview that Paul was assigned to. And that phone in with the press sometime in the afternoon. And of course the gig. Maybe a practice or two to warm up - George was feeling a little rusty for some reason, but hated to admit it.
And then the whole escape plan fell into shambles when Mal Evans came rumbling into the room with a giant bag slung over his shoulder. George heard an audible groan coming from Paul and John and he quickly finished shaving.
"Well, lads. It looks like you have mail. Get to work and I'll buy you an ice cream," Mal entoned. His bulk filled the doorway as he slammed the mail down onto the carpet, scattering the various letters and fan art all over the place.
Damn.
"Hey, where's Ringo?" The roadie asked. He never missed anything, that man. "Wasn't he sleeping here tonight?"
"Of course he was. I was sleeping with him." John answered. "I think he snored so loud it blew him out of the room, -" He looked around and shrugged, then picked up a random letter. " - But then again there aren't any windows in ‘ere to begin with."
"The vent?" Paul asked innocently. "I mean, he's so small and stuff could've happened to him."
Paul slipped to the floor, all vainglorious in his white underwear, and found a letter addressed to him. A snicker escaped from his lips. "Hey, take a gander at this one!
Dear Beatles,
I was wondering if all of you could send me your hairclippings after you've gotten your hairs cut. Do you wear boxers or briefs? I would treasure your hair for always and if you could possibly tell me if you're all just hair? Is there any part of your body that doesn't have hair? And if you're looking for Ringo, I know where he is.
Signed Irma
What the fuck?" Paul gave another nervous laugh and set the letter aside.
"John, when did Ringo leave?" Mal asked a second time.
"Wellllll .... We were sort of asleep - so I ‘ave no idea. I mean being unconscious and all does impair your memory, Mal." He turned serious. "I mean, I was awake when he kipped so ...." John had these moments when he would be all snarly and dangerous and in a snap he would be as docile as a lamb. "If we can't find Ringo ...." George could see John's face turning red. When it turned red, you knew it was trouble.
There was a silence. George coughed and looked around a little bit.
"Well, what are we gonna do?" George asked quietly.
"I think we should look for the little bloke." Paul chimed. "Unless he's somehow slipped under the carpet."
"How? There's a hundred girls ready to rip us apart out there."
"Ah, well, this is where we improvise. We have our leather jackets?" John asked. A brow was raised.
"I left mine in the van." Paul said.
"Ah, ok, fuckit." And then John smiled his devious little grin.
Ideas were never unplentiful whenever John Lennon was around.
------ 2 -------
It started innocently enough. George woke up to a hellishly busy day and found that Paul's nose was itchy, and that Ringo was missing. In fact, even John, who had been forced to sleep in the bed with him (They slept as far away from eachother as possible with as much blankets as they could hog without ripping their sheets apart - but did not know that in some cases when they were blissfully asleep they snuggled together for warmth while simultaniously dreaming about birds, and that's a whole other story.) could not say where the drummer of the most famousest band in England could have snuck off to. Could he have been blown out the window? Swept under the carpet? Or ....
"Hey, Paulie, what's that letter about?" John asked.
Paul looked up and handed the mysterious letter to John, who still had that sneaky grin across his face, although it was slightly diminished after the others disapproved of his famous plan. John was a little miffed, but then again, how could they manage to find skirts to fit them? It would be clever, or as clever as they could make it, and they were known to be clever.
"Well." John put the letter down, tried to hide his anxiety by laughing. But the laugh came off shaky and he knew the others could hear his nervousness. "So what do we do about all this, eh? Anyone?"
"I think -er, those ideas we listened to were pretty gear. Dressing down a little for a larf would do us some good, wouldn't it?" George said. His idea was springing back into fruition and he couldn't help but grin.
Paul coughed. "Well, there are birds I'm sure we can -er - persuade to come in ... I mean, you know ... get them to take their clothes off somehow ..."
"Now, lads, you know what we have to do, get down to those letters and I'll call the police if Ringo doesn't show up within an hour. They can handle it I'm sure." Mal turned to leave. "Brian said specifically NOT to lure fans into the hotels. And I'm sure they would do anything for you as long as you don't pinch them."
"Yeah but whaddabout Ring?"
"What about our show?"
"What about my famous plan?"
What about my disguise and getting some butties at the pub? George decided he had had a little bit more than enough and wandered away without anybody else noticing.
========================================
Sometime in 1963 ....
So it all started innocently enough. George Harrison woke to a bright, hellishly busy day ahead and he had no time to comb his hair. Paul was still snoring away, something of a surprise to George, because Paul would normally be the one to wake up and get everybody on the move.
The young musician looked over to where the rest of his mates were - John was singing off key and intensely scrubbing himself of the sweat accumulated over the two gigs they had done last night. In the shower, not in the little mini kitchenette.
George grinned at that thought and decided it was time to wake Paul up. "Hey, Paul! WAKE UP!" Screw being ‘The Quiet Beatle'!
Well, that should do it, George thought smugly to himself. He was also wondering where the hell Ringo was.
"Aw, leave ‘im alone, George. Can't you see he's had a long night?" John had sauntered over and sat on the edge of the bed and lit a ciggy. Hew was draped in a towel and half naked and his hair was all wet and smelling like shampoo. "I mean with all the jumpin' and shit." He got up and did a mock Twist and Shout jump (amazingly well done, considering his towel was precariously lookse), then went to get some cornflakes from the kitchen without even glancing at his clothes-filled suitcase.
George contemplated again and nodded soberly, then sighed. He was truly exhausted, but had no reason to show any of it to anyone. The tour was one insane fairground after another, with screaming girls and press and journalists, and loud music - but he loved every mad second of it.
It would be the same today for sure. The famous Beatles were everywhere, not just in the North. Even in Europe their fame was spreading. There wasn't a day in the news when the papers failed to mention them. Now, if only they could conquer America - well .... He took a ciggy and bumped a light from John. Now, that would be a nice thought.
Paul was sort of awake now, and it looked like his nose was itchy. He kept twitching it as if he was about to sneeze, but instead opened his bright, soft eyes to see George leaning over him. "Oh, there you are. I had the strangest dream. You'll never believe it."
"Oh, gerrup, Paulie, we're not yer doctor!" John growled from the table. He had his spoon halfway in his mouth and was chowing down as fast as he could. "Were you pretending to be a bunny?"
"Ah, no ... But my nose is really itchy." Paul pulled a scrunchy, agonized face and tried getting his hands from under the blankets. George tried not to think of where the hand had been and stood up to go and have a wash.
Ah, the life of a Beatle. George wished he could be a normal person for all the quid in the world, and he would pay anything just to be away from it all. Suddenly the light popped on and he grinned while brushing his teeth. Why not sneak out? It would do him a world of good.
And there wouldn't be anything wrong with going out for an hour or two. In disguise. With dark shades and quiffed hair and his old leather jacket. He could become a right old Ted and nobody would think anything of it except to stay out of his way.
The gig was at 8.00 PM and it was only 7:30 in the morning. Nothing was really scheduled except that silly NEMS interview that Paul was assigned to. And that phone in with the press sometime in the afternoon. And of course the gig. Maybe a practice or two to warm up - George was feeling a little rusty for some reason, but hated to admit it.
And then the whole escape plan fell into shambles when Mal Evans came rumbling into the room with a giant bag slung over his shoulder. George heard an audible groan coming from Paul and John and he quickly finished shaving.
"Well, lads. It looks like you have mail. Get to work and I'll buy you an ice cream," Mal entoned. His bulk filled the doorway as he slammed the mail down onto the carpet, scattering the various letters and fan art all over the place.
Damn.
"Hey, where's Ringo?" The roadie asked. He never missed anything, that man. "Wasn't he sleeping here tonight?"
"Of course he was. I was sleeping with him." John answered. "I think he snored so loud it blew him out of the room, -" He looked around and shrugged, then picked up a random letter. " - But then again there aren't any windows in ‘ere to begin with."
"The vent?" Paul asked innocently. "I mean, he's so small and stuff could've happened to him."
Paul slipped to the floor, all vainglorious in his white underwear, and found a letter addressed to him. A snicker escaped from his lips. "Hey, take a gander at this one!
Dear Beatles,
I was wondering if all of you could send me your hairclippings after you've gotten your hairs cut. Do you wear boxers or briefs? I would treasure your hair for always and if you could possibly tell me if you're all just hair? Is there any part of your body that doesn't have hair? And if you're looking for Ringo, I know where he is.
Signed Irma
What the fuck?" Paul gave another nervous laugh and set the letter aside.
"John, when did Ringo leave?" Mal asked a second time.
"Wellllll .... We were sort of asleep - so I ‘ave no idea. I mean being unconscious and all does impair your memory, Mal." He turned serious. "I mean, I was awake when he kipped so ...." John had these moments when he would be all snarly and dangerous and in a snap he would be as docile as a lamb. "If we can't find Ringo ...." George could see John's face turning red. When it turned red, you knew it was trouble.
There was a silence. George coughed and looked around a little bit.
"Well, what are we gonna do?" George asked quietly.
"I think we should look for the little bloke." Paul chimed. "Unless he's somehow slipped under the carpet."
"How? There's a hundred girls ready to rip us apart out there."
"Ah, well, this is where we improvise. We have our leather jackets?" John asked. A brow was raised.
"I left mine in the van." Paul said.
"Ah, ok, fuckit." And then John smiled his devious little grin.
Ideas were never unplentiful whenever John Lennon was around.
------ 2 -------
It started innocently enough. George woke up to a hellishly busy day and found that Paul's nose was itchy, and that Ringo was missing. In fact, even John, who had been forced to sleep in the bed with him (They slept as far away from eachother as possible with as much blankets as they could hog without ripping their sheets apart - but did not know that in some cases when they were blissfully asleep they snuggled together for warmth while simultaniously dreaming about birds, and that's a whole other story.) could not say where the drummer of the most famousest band in England could have snuck off to. Could he have been blown out the window? Swept under the carpet? Or ....
"Hey, Paulie, what's that letter about?" John asked.
Paul looked up and handed the mysterious letter to John, who still had that sneaky grin across his face, although it was slightly diminished after the others disapproved of his famous plan. John was a little miffed, but then again, how could they manage to find skirts to fit them? It would be clever, or as clever as they could make it, and they were known to be clever.
"Well." John put the letter down, tried to hide his anxiety by laughing. But the laugh came off shaky and he knew the others could hear his nervousness. "So what do we do about all this, eh? Anyone?"
"I think -er, those ideas we listened to were pretty gear. Dressing down a little for a larf would do us some good, wouldn't it?" George said. His idea was springing back into fruition and he couldn't help but grin.
Paul coughed. "Well, there are birds I'm sure we can -er - persuade to come in ... I mean, you know ... get them to take their clothes off somehow ..."
"Now, lads, you know what we have to do, get down to those letters and I'll call the police if Ringo doesn't show up within an hour. They can handle it I'm sure." Mal turned to leave. "Brian said specifically NOT to lure fans into the hotels. And I'm sure they would do anything for you as long as you don't pinch them."
"Yeah but whaddabout Ring?"
"What about our show?"
"What about my famous plan?"
What about my disguise and getting some butties at the pub? George decided he had had a little bit more than enough and wandered away without anybody else noticing.
Keep on going
