Hey loves, I'll be off on holidays from the 9th to the18th! I won't be around too much and my threads will probably be slow, but I'll still be able to have internet on my phone, so you can reach me through email if you need me :) See you all soon!
(btw, I have missed the second anniversary of this account just like I missed the first. I am beginning to see a pattern, there...)
"When the Beatles performed their Beatles Christmas Show, at the Astoria Cinema, Finsbury Park, London, New Years Eve, 31st December 1963, there was an adorable skit that so far has never shown upon film. But many photos exist of this classic bit of tomfoolery from the Boys."
John played the mustachioed villain, Paul the handsome hero, George the helpless heroine called Ermyntrude, and Ringo, from what I understand, threw snow.
George, being in drag, had to wear a skirt. And that tiny little Harrison waist just couldn’t hold it up. So a belt was improvised with a string.
This is the cutest thing ever. C'me here, Ermyntrude.
let 'em die in their sleep. Provided you can sleep through a plane-crash, which I don't think you can, but yeah.
Oh, the heartbreak.
"Sod 'im," John grumbled under his breath, kicking a cushion to the floor viciously. It wasn't that he felt uninspired or too upset to write, really. He just couldn't be bothered to put anything together these days. He had moments of apathy like these, days during which he would do nothing but trip on acid and watch telly. Mn. Maybe he ought to write a song about that, after all. He sat up with a long suffering sigh and scratched his stubbly cheek, getting up and padding to the kitchen to get himself a cup of tea.
The wifey was away for the week (at her mother's again, or something), not very keen on staying around when John was in "one of his moods". She was away rather a lot, these days, he'd noticed. He knew he would have felt suspicious and perhaps jealous about that once, but now he just didn't care anymore. He supposed that was one more sign that his happily married state of boredom was falling apart. John didn't feel like being alone though, wondering who he could have over. Not a groupie, he wasn't in the mood for that. Paul would just boss him into writing, and he was fed up with George showing him sitar chords. Ringo then, perhaps. Or that kooky bird he'd met at the Indica Gallery. She'd been quite something.
Dylan had said he'd swing by, he recalled, sipping his tea distractedly. He'd been high though when they'd met the day before, and John knew all too well that dear Robert wasn't the most reliable person ever as far as remembering that sort of thing went. Oh, well. He took another sip of tea, looking up when the bell in the corridor rang, leaving his cup in the kitchen and sauntering to the door, forgetting to take his heavy glasses off.
I love my life *tears of joy*
|Paranoid Personality Disorder:||Very High|
|Schizoid Personality Disorder:||Moderate|
|Schizotypal Personality Disorder:||Very High|
|Antisocial Personality Disorder:||High|
|Borderline Personality Disorder:||Moderate|
|Histrionic Personality Disorder:||Very High|
|Narcissistic Personality Disorder:||High|
|Avoidant Personality Disorder:||High|
|Dependent Personality Disorder:||Very High|
-- Take the Personality Disorder Test --
-- Personality Disorder Info --
*huffs* That's not true. I'm a sweet sort of bloke. *pouts* right?