Theo

Big connoisseur of Marianne faithful, Robert Fraser, Brian epstein and Derek taylor | my special interest is history btw, that’s why i’m insane | possibly the only person who thinks derek taylor is hot asf, i’ve come to find out

[ashslio]

George Martin in Miami, 1964

[theo-shershis]

a lot of people forget that Joe Biden also joined them on the Ed Sullivan Miami trip. Which is perhaps an early clue or foreshadowing to the political sway pop culture would have on American politics in modern times

[thehuxler]

George Martin's Hand/Wrist ratio is CRAZY

[theo-shershis]

[modrockmocker]

Does Brian know he's the only one in this trio that likes men

[1969mccartney]

Paul with Derek & Mavis by Tom Hanley at Apple, March 1969

[theo-shershis]

DEREK (the body language of deference he is showing to mccartney is crazy. stand up, brother)

[modrockmocker]

Cilla Black, Brian Epstein’s only female act, with 3/4 of the Beatles.

[theo-shershis]

Cilla’s 21st (where Brian robbed her dessert) and the Alfie premiere in 1966.

[theo-shershis]

enjoy three pixels of marianne and jeremy clyde. is he wearing a backpack?

[paulmacca1966]

look what i found!

source

[theo-shershis]

yay!

[theo-shershis]

jane asher short film i happened upon. i thought it would be a minute long comedy short film but nope there is another 16 minutes to go and it just gets more insane.

[theo-shershis]

i need to queen out with them

[crepesuzette2023]

I'm a bit puzzled about the tags you wrote about Mike McCartney and Tara Browne. Could you elaborate? 👀

Dear Anon, With pleasure! The tag #Mike/Tara the tattoo of my soul (I believe it was) refers to the idea Paul wasn't the McCartney brother canoodling with Tara—Mike was. The little brother, who had more freedom, relentless curiosity, and a raw talent for weirdness. And he was so strangely handsome, too!

How likely is this? I don't know. But consider this: Tara took Mike to Paris, asked him to share a bed, and introduced him to his mother and her Magrittes. (I'm starting to think "show him your Magrittes" is code for something! Just kidding.)

Here is Mike, describing the trip in his memoir. This is on the long side, so it goes under the cut.

Note: "that's what Vadim was on about" refers to Roger Vadim, Bardot's husband, who drew women with fish heads for Mike at a party where both were bored with the real women. Only later, Mike said, did he realize that the drawings were references to a recurring theme of Magritte's. PARIS II (ca. 1965)

From “The Macs: Mike McCartney’s Family Album” by Mike McCartney (1981)

The second time I went to Paris was at the request of young Tara Browne. Tara was a Guinness heir (and a right honourable one at that). I was a Beatle brother, so we had mop and hop tops in common (or should I say commons, as Tara's Dad was in the House of Lords).

Being two gay young blades, one with too much money, the other with not a lot of sense, we believed in living life to the swingin' London full, but when Tara suggested we go to Paris for a week or so, I had to admit to him that I wasn't that well off.

'Oh, don't worry Mike . .. I'll pay the difference.’ 

Being of stubborn, Liverpool working-class stock, with great Northern pride, I readily agreed (vive la difference), and as my passport was in the Pool and I was in Tara's Eaton Row Mews house, a provisional passport was arranged and we were on the next flight to gay Paree.

At the airport to meet us was a chauffeur with the most extraordinary Mercedes I'd ever seen. It was so long it looked as if a bit had been stuck in the middle. This magnificent creature (and the Merc) floated us to Boulevard Suchet in the posh Trocadero part of Paris, where we disembarked into the wrought iron lift which zoomed us slowly to the roof garden apartment.

Tara's mum, the Lady Oranmore and Browne was in the south of France, so Tara showed me round the Magritte-littered lounge (this was the first time I'd seen a Magritte 'live' -so that's what Vadim was on about . . . not at all fishy, but very tasty) and up to the bedrooms.

'Shall we share bedrooms?' he asked.

'Oops!' I thought. We didn't know each other that well, and here is a gay young titled gentleman asking me to go to bed with him.

'D'you mind if we have separate bedrooms . . . I snore.'

'Not at all, see you downstairs in half an hour.'

I needn't have bothered. Tara was as straight as a dye; he was just being courteous.

After a shower, I dried off in head-to-toe towels, had a lie down, (the champagne on the plane was mainly to blame), and we met downstairs in the more than comfortable lounge (with a telly in the bookcase ... disguised as books!).

'Right! Show me Paris . . . I missed it last time as I was feeling a little gay.'

Tara showed me Paree all right; the chauffeur-driven Merc took us to La Coupole for a drink and a bump into Vidal Sassoon, then to a beautiful little restaurant called La Petite Bedon where I had my first sparrow in red wine (I think they called it quail but whatever it was, it was excellent). The pot-bellied chef even came to our table, he didn't do anything . . . just came to our table. And then on to the gay Paris nightclubs, where some ale was supped, eventually ending up at Castell's . . . the club of the day.

Here we were checked in by a beautiful, cool Paris lady, who spoke not a soupspoon of English.

'I fancy that,' I overstated to Tara.

'That's our Letty, it's good to know her.'

'Letty,' dictated I as a mental note, as we descended the Castellian stairs to debauchery. We were posing in the middle of our whisky and Cokes when through the dark, staggered the Yardbirds. As soon as they saw me they chirped in perfect unison 'Today's Monday, today's Monday, Monday's washing day, is everybody 'appy? You betcha life we are' (Scaffold's first resounding, but popular flop).

It's lovely being loved, but Tara and I were there for the serious purpose of enjoying ourselves, so we opened the Castell cage door, sent them flying, and continued with our night-time revelry alongside beautiful, black and white, pencil thin models, and me popping upstairs to let Letty in on the fact that my intentions were entirely honourable.

Just as dawn was breaking (or was it Françoise) we swayed gently out of the 'in' club and across to the restaurant opposite, where we nearly got in a fight over our chilli con carne (because I hadn't clicked with Letty at the nightclub . . . if the truth were known).

As we emerged to the even chillier French morning, as if by magic the limo drew up and we fell in. He'd been waiting all night! Being working class and drunk (what could be worse!), I gave the chauffeur hell for not joining us in the night club.

All at once, in the early Parisian morning light, we were faced with a strange predicament. The limousine was suddenly surrounded by thousands of French cyclists on their way to work . .. all facing us.

Either we were in a one-way street or they were cycling backwards.

Whatever, it was a stalemate, and we all stopped.

The gruff garlic comments from yer actual working-class Frenchies could be felt through the Mercedes skin. I put myself in their position:

I've been up all night after drinking pastis, with the petite monstre-baby. . . shouting above the Pierre Douglas Show, the wife nags at me over coffee and France Soir . . . I climb on me cold velo bike . . . cycle through the freezing five o'clock rain ... join my thousands of Parisian rat-pack colleagues...and there in the middle of the narrow City rue is a long black car going the wrong way, containing two young, drunk, mop-top goldfish (not only that . . . it's a bosch car).

Let's just say that if we were in the middle of a revolution and there was a Bastille nearby, they would have simply said 'Off wiz les cochons 'eads,' before carrying on to work.

Luckily, one of my many disguises is as the Scarlet Pimpernel and indicating a secret side-street escape route to the chauffeur, we avoided the hoard of Robespierrean Rats and headed for the safety of our Magrittien mansion (zey seek us here, zey seek us zere, zose damp froggies seek us everywhere).

More power-packed Parisian nights followed with the inevitable falling in love with me by Letty and many torrid nights of 'love' were enjoyed by all. In contrast to 'being in love' with Celia, here was a woman who taught me how to make love with more positions than an Indian Yoga teacher would dare to attempt, and all in French!

Tara's mum, Lady Oranmore and Browne, paid us a visit in the middle of these 'sumestas' and after my customary Butler-served fresh orange juice I felt slightly apprehensive about my first meeting with the upper crust lady matriarch (particularly with a bit of French fluff in the bedroom)!

Once again, I needn't have worried. "Oonagh' turned out to be one of the warmest, coolest, quick-witted, most subtle women I'd ever met, and she made us both most welcome. She was a lady, but not just the lady in the title. A real lady. I call her Mum', she calls me Dad, and we shall remain friends till the end.

[theo-shershis]

Mike/Tara means the world to me. I loved Mike’s firsthand inclusions in the Tara bio book. I really admire Mikes eccentricity and wit, and no wonder! as they say in my country ‘he didn’t lick it up off the stones’.

[candicoated]

"Your father and I are very disappointed in you."

[theo-shershis]

[beatleskinkmeme]

Paul takes Tara up to Liverpool to stay overnight with his family but either can't stop comparing or finally gets to live out his fantasies

.

[theo-shershis]

wait yo? though mike mccartneys relationship with tara is far more interesting, but who is going to write about tara/mike. too fringe for the beatles community

[theo-shershis]

The vogue shoot! (i put the infinity stones back together.)

[theo-shershis]

Ayo?

[theo-shershis]

very different energies with these trouples at the yellow submarine premiere. in fairness one couple wasn’t living in robert’s basement like j&y were, keith and anita went home from mount street by 2am atleast. do you think robert coat checked that staff

and because i only post whatever pops in my noggin’ .i add a george martin and judy picture because i think they’re both pretty

dude are pattie and george in full yellow for this? oh everyone is having a better time than paul here. look at the little hat!

[theo-shershis]

just realized why my last past was so strangely worded. it was 2 am, i’d taken a melatonin and was fighting to keep awake. fret not i will do this again.

[theo-shershis]

peter asher and derek taylor at the ‘your are here’ exhibit!!

these people were colleagues lest we forget.

[theo-shershis]

found derek in the colour footage but peter asher fans don’t rejoice because he’s not there.

may be marianne in this too but she was wearing white last time i saw her, may be a different day as she was outside a different gallery

[paulmacca1966]

"she was wearing white last time i saw her" talking like you were there crying

[theo-shershis]

i worded that egregiously lmao. but i am truly fey enough to have meant it in earnest one of these days. i meant the footage of her with the balloons infront of the gallery . this colour footage i remember so well but which seems to have disappeared from the internet when i went to find it. now seeing the pics, stripes dress girl is just some rando. despite marianne having worn a similar dress to the indica(?) some time before.