Back in the Swinging Sixties, Michael Caine is holding a big showbiz
party in his swanky new house.
Everyone who's anyone is there - top stars from the worlds of movies and
music, fashion and art.
There's a feed of pints, the best wines that money can buy, oysters,
champagne, Lennon and McCartney are helping themselves at the bar, Jim
Morrison and his band are sitting on the couch singing "Light My Fire",
and over in the corner, George Peppard's getting very pally with Sophia
Loren.
All's going really well, until Jim Morrison decides he's bored out of
his skull, and wants to go home for an early night curled up with a good
book.
"Oi, Jim," objects Michael Caine, "party's just got started. How's about
I get one of 'the ladies' to take you into the spare bedroom for a bit
of the 'how's yer father?'"
"Fair play," nods Jim [well that's not his exact words, but you get the
gist], "as long as she does the rest of the band, too."
"Not a problem, Jim," smiles Michael, as he pulls a young dolly bird in
close and whispers some instructions in her ear.
Half an hour later, the young lass is just wiping her chin, when in
walks Ringo Starr from the Beatles.
"Alright, luv?" he drones, "don't suppose you fancy extending that
service to me, do you?"
The young woman thinks about this for a second, then says "What the
hell!" and proceeds to unzip Ringo's fly and get to work.
Ringo's having a grand time, until, mere moments before he reaches the point off no return, the door flies open and Michael Caine bursts in. He drags
the young woman away, and screams at her to get out.
"Wh-why?" she whimpers.
"I told you," Caine snarls. "You're only supposed to blow the bloody
Doors off..."
party in his swanky new house.
Everyone who's anyone is there - top stars from the worlds of movies and
music, fashion and art.
There's a feed of pints, the best wines that money can buy, oysters,
champagne, Lennon and McCartney are helping themselves at the bar, Jim
Morrison and his band are sitting on the couch singing "Light My Fire",
and over in the corner, George Peppard's getting very pally with Sophia
Loren.
All's going really well, until Jim Morrison decides he's bored out of
his skull, and wants to go home for an early night curled up with a good
book.
"Oi, Jim," objects Michael Caine, "party's just got started. How's about
I get one of 'the ladies' to take you into the spare bedroom for a bit
of the 'how's yer father?'"
"Fair play," nods Jim [well that's not his exact words, but you get the
gist], "as long as she does the rest of the band, too."
"Not a problem, Jim," smiles Michael, as he pulls a young dolly bird in
close and whispers some instructions in her ear.
Half an hour later, the young lass is just wiping her chin, when in
walks Ringo Starr from the Beatles.
"Alright, luv?" he drones, "don't suppose you fancy extending that
service to me, do you?"
The young woman thinks about this for a second, then says "What the
hell!" and proceeds to unzip Ringo's fly and get to work.
Ringo's having a grand time, until, mere moments before he reaches the point off no return, the door flies open and Michael Caine bursts in. He drags
the young woman away, and screams at her to get out.
"Wh-why?" she whimpers.
"I told you," Caine snarls. "You're only supposed to blow the bloody
Doors off..."
