Trumped

Oot on the lash! As usual, the boys tried to outdo each other with their stories without openly resorting to bragging or self-aggrandisement. They were all delighted to hear about my photo at the RSA (you've heard about this, right?) but even more so about L's son catching the 12lb pike on a beezer of a fly L had tied. But, to trump it all, MrT related to us how he had been flown down to London to be filmed reminiscing about the early days of the Stones. Yes, on camera, for the BBC! Strewth!
He could apparently remember, word perfect, how Mick (yeah, of Mick'n'Keef) had come and sat with them in the carriage (in MrT's company was a beatnik chick....) and MrT had asked him what he thought of The Beatles. No shit!
I capture this here for MrW who may have only the haziest recollection of it all this morning.
Earlier, a call into the Filmhouse to see Brooklyn, which was a fine gentle little film, avoiding most of the pitfalls of setting the action in 1950s Oirland. And in between all this, a white pudding supper, eaten walking along the street. No wonder I'm feeling so chipper this morning.