‘I didn’t hate John. People said to me when he came out with those things on his record about me, you must hate him, but I didn’t. I don’t. We were once having a right slagging session and I remember how he took off his granny glasses. I can still see him. He put them down and said, “It’s only me, Paul.” Then he put them back on again, and we continued slagging… That phrase keeps coming back to me all the time. “It’s only me.” It’s become a mantra in my mind.
‘I have some juicy stuff I could tell about John. But I wouldn’t. Not when Yoko’s alive, or Cynthia. John would. He would grab, go for the action, say the first thing in his head. We admired him for that. It was honesty, but it could hurt. And it wasn’t really all that honest. He knew he could hurt. He could be wicked. But I’m always sensible. That’s me. I would never say the things he said.
‘No one else knows the truth, such as it is, that’s the trouble. I was talking to Neil the other day, having a laugh and remembering some incident, a funny story. We remembered everything exactly, what we said, what I was wearing, that someone had a fan. We were absolutely exact on 75 per cent of the story, except on one vital thing. I said it took place in Piccadilly and Neil said it was Savile Row. I can see it so clearly, every detail as it happened — and so can Neil, yet it’s in different places.
‘Until I was about 30, I thought the world was an exact place. Now I know that life just splutters along. John knew that. He was the great debunker. He’d be debunking all his death thing now.
‘I can’t really remember the 1960s anyway. I went through it in a sort of purple haze. The other day we were at a place, me and Linda, and this gorgeous blonde came up to me and flung her arms round my neck. “Remember me, Paul?” I said hmm, yeh, now, let me see, but I had no knowledge of ever seeing her before. “But Paul, we made love in LA…” “Oh,” I said. “Really. Meet the wife. This is Linda… ‘Scuse us, we’ll have to go…”
‘It’s happened before, of course. It was before I was married. It can be dodgy, but Linda’s a good skin.’
I suggested that he should write it all down, or tape it, record in his words what he thinks was the relationship with John, exorcise it once and for all, then stick it in a drawer and forget it.
‘I might. I did that after being in jail. I’ve written my feelings about that. I wasn’t allowed pencil and paper in jail, and it was all I wanted, so when I came home I wrote it straight out. I don’t know what to do with it. I don’t want that usual publishing scene. It’s just for me. It’s about 20,000 words. Linda and one or two other people have read it and think it’s good. I got a private printer, just to print for me one copy, one only. I’ve got it. I just wanted a plain white cover and, inside, just black words on white paper. On cheap white paper. I wanted it like an Olympia press book. Just a cheap little thing. It fits in the pocket, just six inches by about four. I did for a time think of publishing a few and selling them off the back of a barrow. Telling no one, just suddenly selling them in the street, for a few bob. But I don’t want a big thing. Then I heard that some pop musician had already done this, so I didn’t want it to look like copying. So I just have the one copy. I’ll let you read it sometime. Tell me what you think.
‘As for me and John, yeh, I might write it down. You know I helped him with his first book. That’s never been mentioned by anyone. Not by John anyway…’
As for the other characters in the Beatle drama, Neil Aspinall, their roadie, went on to be an executive in Apple and produced the Let It Be film. He’s still there, though Apple these days seems to have less to do and produce. He is married with five children. Mal Evans, on the other hand, who always seemed so relaxed and contented, compared with the rather nervy Neil, ended his life in tragedy. He’d left his wife and family and had moved to America when he was shot in an incident with the police in Los Angeles in 1976. Paul’s father Jim had also died, so has John’s father Fred, and George’s mum, Louise. Ivan Vaughan, the boy who first brought John and Paul together (see Chapter 2), is now a semi-invalid, suffering from Parkinson’s disease.
George Martin went on to become a successful independent music producer, which he still is, though without discovering anyone on the scale of the Beatles. His remark in the original End Bit, warning that they could go wrong on their own, was, in some ways, prophetic.
Cynthia Lennon married an Italian after her divorce from John. That marriage ended in divorce. And so did a third marriage. She now has a new man in her life and is living very quietly in Cumbria, near Penrith, taking up her interest in art again, which she neglected since her art college days with John. At the age of 45, with her son Julian beginning to be established in the pop music world, she is considering various new careers, such as fashion and television interviewing.
Pete Best dragged himself out of that depressive state he was in when I last met him, in 1968 at his mother’s home. He got himself a respectable job, working at a Jobcentre in Liverpool, and after 16 years of it, he is earning £8,500 a year. His book about his days with the Beatles eventually came out in 1985. It even managed a favourable report in The Times.
After doing very little for a decade to commemorate or recognize their most famous sons, Liverpool has jumped into neo-Beatle life, with statues, exhibitions, tours and other excitements to interest the tourists (see Appendix).
One legal and business row still lumbers on — the battle by Paul, mainly, to get control of Northern Songs. It does seem unfair that the Beatles, in essence, still do not own themselves. When Paul was making Broad Street, he even had to ask permission to record ‘Yesterday’. It’s a very long story (see Chapter 20 for its origins), which started with Dick James and his firm owning 50 per cent of all Beatle numbers, as their music publisher. It then passed to Lew Grade’s ATV empire, then to the Australian, Holmes a’Court. Paul at one time tried to buy it back for £10 million, but failed, and at the time of writing he is reported to be offering £20 million. Northern Songs owns the copyright of over 200 Lennon — McCartney compositions, virtually the complete Beatle canon. You can see the attraction.
If you are ever tempted to feel envious of millionaires, then realize how they too can be thwarted and put down, just like the rest of us. Even all their millions cannot always give them what they want. It has at least united Paul and Yoko, after several years of a somewhat strained relationship. Yoko is just as smart in business as Paul, if not smarter. Together, I am sure they will get what they want in the end.
What about the creative future of Paul, George and Ringo? There seems little evidence of them keeping up with new developments in literature, art, theatre or even popular music. But then again, there never was. They prided themselves on being uneducated, untouched, uninfluenced. They provided their own stimuli, the four of them sparking each other, getting out of themselves what was there. If they want to remain independent creative artists, working on their own, where will the stimuli come from? Who will provide the sparks?
They are now of course middle-aged men, so why should we expect it? Ringo is 45 this year, Paul is 43 and George, the baby, is 42. They have their children or their gardens to contemplate, time to put their feet up and relax, though in Paul’s case he is not built for relaxation. Linda knows this well. She is the one pulling inwardly more, into the bosom of the family, but there is a part of Paul that would still like to be up there, still one of the superstars, singing along with Stevie Wonder, or Michael Jackson, or whoever the next flavour of the year will be, just to show he can still do it. The glitter still attracts him, despite his genuine love of family life.