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(managedbyepstein): "My goodness! You know Paul, I think that one of these days, your girlfriend is going to give me a stroke."
Weary hazels bore into his managerās miffed countenance before his skull thunks onto the table.Ā
āYeahā¦ but IĀ āave tāgoĀ home toĀ āer, seeā¦,āPaul grumbles, his head suddenly lifting as he sports an expression of exasperation,āwhen she even āas a mind tābe there!ā
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Gather Round All You Clowns || Closed au
managedbyepstein
The final show on the final night of their tour had drawn to a close a mere hour ago. At last the curtain had fallen and the boys were set to go home the following afternoon for a short break, before heading into London to start work on their next album.
The hallway was dimly lit, with the majority of the hotelās occupants having now retired to their rooms, including the four lads. Paulās room, on the other hand, remained unoccupied and the only sign of him ever having been there was his bass, idly discarded on his still perfectly made bed. No, he was paying a visit to Johnās room, just to...keep him company.
It was nothing. At least, thats what McCartney told himself in order to fight off the sense of self disgust that loomed in the back of his mind- it was just a bit of experimentation, nothing to be taken seriously.
The two were quite tangled up in each other...literally. With his back against the wall and the otherās hands slipping their way underneath his shirt, Paul found himself sliding off his best mateās suit jacket, before starting on the shirt buttons with shaky fingers. With their hands in each otherās hair and the regular plantings of clumsy kisses on necks, lips and cheeks, McCartney hooked one of his long legs around his friendās waist.Ā It was just a bit of lark. Nothing wrong with that, right?
Though the boys should learn to lock the door as, much to their blissful ignorance, a gust of wind that had blown in from the partially opened window had pulled the door slightly ajar and now, unbeknown to them, they appeared to have a spectator...
(managedbyepstein) : "Happy Birthday Ringo. I thought I ought to bring you your gift sooner rather than later, after all- I'm sure you heard what happened last month when Paul thought I'd forgotten his day !"
*His lips curling into a smile, Ringo released a soft chuckle at Brianās words* Thanks! Yeah, rumor has it thaā he burst into tears, locked himself in his room for the whole day anā didnāt speak to you for over a week. *He joked, flashing a grin in his managerās direction* I read it in the papers therefore it must be true.
(Managedbyepstein): "Ringo, I've just received a rather... distressing note which claimed that you were photographed unconscious and in the possession of substances last night. Is it possible that these photographs do, indeed, exist?"
*When Brian entered, Ringo was lying in a heep on the sofa, next to which was a bucket that had clearly been rinsed out several times. The previous night had been really rather wild (at least, what Ringo could remember of it) and he was now bearing the punishment. Pale as a ghost, he raised his head and looked blankly at his manager, squinting a little to try and make out a clear picture of him*
Iā¦
*He huffed and rubbed his temples. Might as well be straight with him. From the moment he sobered up, Ringo knew that if the press didnāt murder him, his manager surely would*
I did pass out some point. *He admitted, making no denial about being in the possession of drugs*
(Managedbyepstein) ā: Caring for each other while ill
The persistent hacking penetrating through the door of Epsteinās office has become grating; his manager is stoic through his misfortunes and quite predictably, the man did not believe in sick days. McCartneyās brows arch in sympathy as the eraser of his pencil raps against his bottom lip. The bassist is simultaneously distracted by the racket while feeling a small pang of guilt for being irritated, especially since Brian is most likely in there slaving away over some fine print that they cannot bother to concern themselves with.
A few moments later, McCartney shoulders through the doorway, his best efforts cradled in his palm. He shuffles forward like a peasant presenting his wares to a king, approaching the desk with a cup of soup in his grasp. Of course the Beatle exerted minimal effort to prepare the meal- all it took was a can-opener and a stove range. However, McCartney nonetheless stands before Epstein as if he had skinned the chicken himself.
āI made yeā chickān noodle,ā Paul announces, settling the steaming bowl carefully on the desk, āme mum always said it wasnāt a myth; she said it really works wonders, yāseeā.
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(Managedbyepstein): "Oh dear, do you need help?"
managedbyepstein
*Ladened with cameras, a couple of Bongo drums and with Paulās bass slung over his shoulder, Ringo was having some difficultly as it was with carrying the items, but had now somehow managed to get his feet tangled in the loose amp wires. As a result, he was now turning around in awkward circles, trying to free himself without dropping any of the delicate (and somewhat valuable) objects* Umā¦I got it. *Ringo answered, though Brianās question fell on deaf ears, the young lad too focused on trying to untangle himself, though not having much success*
Well played, y'bugger.Ā
Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā George had been carrying around his script for the past few days. He'd read through it a couple of times, drawn tick marks where his lines started and ended, but he hadn't attempted memorizing them yet.Ā Now that he had down-time, since he was getting over a cold, the guitarist decided he'd try to get his memorization out of the way. Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Sticking his head out of his door, George scanned the corridor for someone who might be up to reading against him. When he spotted Brian, the younger man smiled. Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā "Eppy? Could you come 'ead a moment?"
