I walk ye streets. Sixty quid, so which pub’s it gonna be? But it turns out the boozers are still all shut anyway. It don’t feel early, but it is—children’s hour on the telly, just the time of year for smoke and darkness.
End up on the hill on top of the High Street. See the rooftops from here, cars crawling, all them paper warriors on the way home, Tracy doing lipstick on the bus, dreaming of her boyfriend’s busy hands and the night to come. Whole of Birmingham’s pouring with light. A few more right turns in the Sierra to where the avenues drip sweet evening and Snodgrass says I’m home darling. Deep in the sea arms of love and bolognese for tea. Streets of Solihull and Sutton Coldfield where the kids know how to work a computer instead of just nick one, wear ye uniform at school, places where the grass is velvet and there are magic fountains amid the fairy trees.
The buses drift by on sails of exhaust and the sky is the colour of Ribena. Soon the stars will come. I can feel the whole night pouring in, humming words I can never quite find. Jesus, does everyone feel this way? Does Snodgrass carry this around when he’s watching Tracy’s legs, on holy Sunday before the Big Match polishing the GL badge on his fucking Sierra? Does he dream of the dark tide, seaweed combers of the ocean parting like the lips he never touched?
Me, I’m Snodgrass, Kevin, Tracy, fat Doris in her print dress. I’m every bit part player in the whole bloody horror-show. Everyone except John Lennon. Oh Jesus Mary Joseph and Winston, I dreamed I could circle the world with me arms, take the crowd with me guitar, stomp the beat on dirty floors so it would never end, whisper the dream for every kid under the starch sheets of radio nights. Show them how to shine.
Christ, I need a drink. Find me way easily, growl at dogs and passers-by, but Dave the barman’s a mate. Everything’s deep red in here and tastes of old booze and cigs and the dodgy Gents, just like swimming through me own blood. Dave is wiping the counter with a filthy rag and it’s Getting pissed tonight are we, John? Yet bet, wac. Notice two rastas in the corner. Give em the old comic Livipud accent. Ken Dodd and his Diddymen. Makes em smile. I hate it when they don’t smile. Ansells and a chaser. Even got change for the juke-box. Not a Beatles song in sight. No “Yesterday”, no “C Moon”, no “Mull of Kinbloodytyre”. Hey, me shout at ye rastas, Now Bob Marley, he was the biz, reet? At least he had the sense to die. Like Jimi, Jim, Janis, all the good ones who kept the anger and the dream. The rastas say something unintelligible back. Rock and roll, lets. The rastas and Winston, we’re on the same wavelength. Buy em a drink. Clap their backs. They’re exchanging grins like they think I don’t notice. Man, will you look at this sad old git? But he’s buying. Yeah I’m buying thanks to Cal. By the way lads, these Rothmans taste like shit, now surely you guys must have something a little stronger?
The evening starts to fill out. I can see everything happening even before it does. Maybe the Doctor will have a little puke round about eight to make room for a greasy chippy. Oh, yeah, and plenty of time for more booze and then maybe a bit of bother later. Rock and roll. The rastas have got their mates with them now and they’re saying Hey man, how much money you got there? I wave it in their faces. Wipe yer arse on this, Sambo. Hey, Dave, yer serving or what? Drinky here, drinky there. The good Doctor give drinky everywhere.
Juke-box is pounding. Arms in arms, I’m singing words I don’t know. Dave he tell me, Take it easy now, John. And I tell him exactly what to stuff, and precisely where. Oh, yeah. Need to sit down. There’s an arm on me shoulder. I push it off. The arm comes again. The Doctor’s ready to lash out, so maybe the bother is coming earlier than expected. Well, that’s just fine and me turn to face ye foe.
It’s Cal.
“John, you just can’t hold your booze any longer.”
She’s leading me out ye door. I wave me rastas an ocean wave. The bar waves back.
The night air hits me like a truncheon. “How the fuck did yer find me?”
“Not very difficult. How many pubs are there around here?”
“I’ve never counted.” No, seriously. “Just dump me here, Cal. Don’t give me another chance to piss yer around. Look.” I fumble me pockets. Twenty pee. Turns out I’m skint again. “I nicked all yer money. Behind the begonia.”
“On the sideboard? That’s not mine, it’s Kevin’s. After last time do you think I’m stupid enough to leave money around where you could find it?”
“Ah-ha!” I point at her in triumph. “You called him Kevin.”
“Just get in the bloody car.”
I get in the bloody car. Some geezer in the front says Okay guv, and off we zoom. It’s a big car. Smells like a new camera. I do me royal wave past Kwiksave. I tell the driver, Hey me man, just step on it and follow that car.
“Plenty of time, sir,” he tells me. He looks like a chauffeur. He’s wearing a bloody cap.
Time for what?
And Jesus, we’re heading to Solihull. I’ve got me glasses on somehow. Trees and a big dual carriageway, the sort you never see from a bus.
The Doctor does the interior a favour. Says, Stop the car. Do a spastic sprint across ye lay-by and yawn me guts out over the verge. The stars stop spinning. I wipe me face. The Sierras are swishing by. There’s a road sign the size of the Liverpool Empire over me head. Says NEC, two miles. So that’s it.
Rock and roll. NEC. I’ve been here and seen Simply Red on Cal’s free tickets, all them pretty tunes with their balls lopped off at birth. Knew what to expect. The place is all car park, like a bloody airport but less fun. Cal says Hi to the staff at the big doors, twilight workers in Butlin’s blazers. Got any jobs on here, Cal? asks the pretty girl with the pretty programmes. It’s Max Bygraves next week. Cal just smiles. The Doctor toys with a witty riposte about how she gets more dough lying with her legs open but decides not to. But Jesus, this is Snodgrass city. I’ve never seen so many casual suits.
I nick a programme from the pile when no one’s looking. Got so much gloss on it, feels like a sheet of glass. The Greatest Hits Tour. Two photos of the Fab Foursome, then and now. George still looks like his mum, and Ringo’s Ringo. Stu is wasted, but he always was. And Macca is Cliff on steroids.
“Stop muttering, John,” Cal says, and takes me arm.
We go into this aircraft hangar. Half an hour later, we’ve got to our seat. It’s right at the bloody front of what I presume must be the stage. Looks more like Apollo Nine. Another small step backwards for mankind. Oh, yeah. I know what a stage should look like. Like the bloody Indra in Hamburg where we took turns between the striptease. A stage is a place where yer stand and fight against the booze and the boredom and the sodding silence. A place where yer make people listen. Like the Cavern too before all the Tracys got their lunchtime jollies by screaming over the music. Magic days where I could feel the power through me Rickenbacker. And that guitar cost me a fortune and where the bloody hell did it get to? Vanished with every other dream.
Lights go down. A smoothie in a pink suit runs up to a mike and says ladeeez and gennnlemen, Paul McCartney, Stuart Sutcliffe, George Harrison, Ringo Starr—the Beatles! Hey, rock and roll. Everyone cheers as they run on stage. Seems like there’s about ten of them nowadays, not counting the background chicks. They’re all tiny up on that launch pad, but I manage to recognise Paul from the photies. He says Hello (pause) Birrrmingham just like he’s Mick Hucknall and shakes his mop top that’s still kinda cut the way Astrid did all them years back in Hamburg. Ringo’s about half a mile back hidden behind the drums but that’s okay cos there’s some session guy up there too. George is looking down at his guitar like he’s Bert Weedon. And there’s Stu almost as far back as Ringo, still having difficulty playing the bass after all these bloody years. Should have stuck with the painting, me lad, something yer were good at. And Jesus, I don’t believe it, Paul shoots Stu an exasperated glance as they kick into the riff for “Long Tall Sally” and he comes in two bars late. Jesus, has anything changed.
Yeah, John Lennon’s not up there. Would never have lasted this long with the D
octor anyway. I mean, thirty years. That’s as bad as Status Quo, and at least they know how to rock, even if they’ve only learnt the one tune.
Days in me life. Number one in a series of one. Collect the fucking set. It’s 1962. Eppy’s sent us rough lads a telegram from down the Smoke. Great news, boys. A contract. This is just when we’re all starting to wonder, and Stu in particular is pining for Astrid back in Hamburg. But we’re all giving it a go and the Doctor’s even agreed to that stupid haircut that never quite caught on and to sacking Pete Best and getting Ringo in and the bloody suit with the bloody collar and the bloody fucking tie. So down to London it is. And then ta ran ta rah! A real single, a real recording studio! We meet this producer dude in a suit called Martin. He and Eppy get on like old buddies, upper crust and all that and me wonders out loud if he’s a queer Jew too, but Paul says Can it John we can’t afford to blow this.
So we gets in ye studio which is like a rabbit hutch. Do a roll Ringo, Martin says through the mike. So Ringo gets down on the mat and turns over. We all piss ourselves over that and all the time there’s Mr Producer looking schoolmasterish. Me, I say, Hey, did yer really produce the Goons, Meester Martin. I got the “Ying Tong Song” note perfect. They all think I’m kidding. Let’s get on with it, John, Eppy says, and oils a grin through the glass, giving me the doe eyes. And don’t yer believe it, John knows exactly what he wants. Oh, yeah. Like, did Colonel Parker fancy Elvis? Wow. So this is rock and roll.
Me and Paul, we got it all worked out. Hit the charts with “Love Me Do”, by Lennon and McCartney, the credits on the record label just the way we agreed years back in the front parlour of his Dad’s house even though we’ve always done our own stuff separately. It’s Macca’s song, but we’re democratic, right? And what really makes it is me harmonica riff. So that’s what we play and we’re all nervous as shit but even Stu manages to get the bass part right just the way Paul’s shown him.
Silence. The amps are humming. Okay, says Mr Martin, putting on a voice, That was just great, lads. An interesting song. Interesting? Never one to beat about the proverbial, I say, yer mean it was shit, right? Just cos we wrote it ourselves and don’t live down Tin Pan bloody Alley. But he says, I think we’re looking at a B side for that one lads. Now, listen to this.
Oh, yeah. We listen. Martin plays us this tape of a demo of some ditty called “How Do You Do It”. Definite Top Ten material for somebody, he says significantly. Gerry and the Pacemakers are already interested but I’ll give you first refusal. And Eppy nods beside him through the glass. It’s like watching Sooty and bloody Sweep in there. So Ringo smashes a cymbal and Stu tries to tune his bass and George goes over to help and I look at Paul and Paul looks at me.
“It’s a decent tune, John,” Paul says.
“You’re kidding. It’s a heap of shit.”
Eppy tuts through the glass. Now John.
And so it goes. Me, I grab me Rickenbacker and walk out the fucking studio. There’s a boozer round the corner. London prices are a joke but I sink one pint and then another, waiting for someone to come and say, You’re so right, John. But Paul don’t come. Eppy don’t come either even though I thought it was me of all the lads that he was after. After the third pint, I’m fucking glad. The haircuts, the suits, and now playing tunes that belong in the bloody adverts. It’s all gone too far.
And there it was. John Quits The Beatles in some local snotrag called Merseybeat the week after before I’ve had a chance to change me mind. And after that I’ve got me pride. When I saw Paul down Victoria Street a couple a months later yer could tell the single was doing well just by his bloody walk. Said Hi John, yer know it’s not too late and God knows how Merseybeat got hold of the story. He said it as though he and Eppy hadn’t jumped at the chance to dump me and make sure everybody knew. There was Macca putting on the charm the way he always did when he was in a tight situation. I told him to stuff it where the fucking sun don’t shine. And that was that. I stomped off down ye street, had a cup of tea in Littlewoods. Walked out on Cynthia and the kid. Formed me own band. Did a few gigs. Bolloxed up me life good and proper.
And here we have the Beatles, still gigging, nearly a full house here at the NEC, almost as big as Phil Collins or the Bee Gees. Paul does his old thumbs-up routine between songs. Awwrright. He’s a real rock and roll dude, him and George play their own solos just like Dire Straights. The music drifts from the poppy older stuff to the druggy middle stuff back to the poppy later stuff. “Things We Said Today”. “Good Day Sun Shine”. “Dizzy Miss Lizzy”. “Jet”. They even do “How Do You Do It”. No sign of “Love Me Do”, of course. That never got recorded, although I’ll bet they could do me harmonica riff on ye synthesiser as easy as shit. It all sounds smooth and tight and sweetly nostalgic, just the way it would on the Sony music centre back at home after Snodgrass has loosened his tie from a hard day watching Tracy wriggle her ass over the fax machine in Accounts. The pretty lights flash, the dry ice fumes, but the spaceship never quite takes off. Me, I shout for “Maxwell’s Silver Hammer”, and in a sudden wave of silence, it seems like Paul actually hears. He squints down at the front row and grins for a moment like he understands the joke. Then the lights dim to purple and Paul sits down at ye piano, gives the seat a little tug just the way he used to when he was practising on his Dad’s old upright in the parlour at home. Plays the opening chords of “Let It Be”. I look around me and several thousand flames are held up. It’s a forest of candles, and Jesus it’s a beautiful song. There’s a lump in me throat, God help me. For a moment, it feels like everyone here is close to touching the dream.
The moment lasts longer than it decently should. Right through “No More Lonely Nights” until “Hey Judi” peters out like something half-finished and the band kick into “Lady Madonna”, which has a thundering bass riff even though Stu is still picking up his Fender. And the fucking stage starts to revolve. Me, I’ve had enough.
Cal looks at me as I stand up. She’s bopping along like a Tracy. I mouth the word Bog and point to me crotch. She nods. Either she’s given up worrying about the Doctor doing a runner or she don’t care. Fact is, the booze has wrung me dry and I’ve got me a headache coming. I stumble me way up the aisles. The music pushes me along. He really is gonna do “C Moon”. Makes yer want to piss just hearing it.
The lav is deliciously quiet. White tiles and some poor geezer in grey mopping up the piss. The Doctor straddles the porcelain. It takes about a minute’s concentration to get a decent flow. Maybe this is what getting old is all about. I wonder if superstars like Macca have the same problem, but I doubt it. Probably pay some geezer to go for them, and oh, Kevin, can yer manage a good dump for me while yer’re there?
Once it starts, the flow keeps up for a long time. Gets boring. I flush down ye stray hair, dismantle ye cigarette butt, looking at the grouting on the tiles, stare around. The guy with the mop is leaning on it, watching me.
“Must be a real groove in here,” I say.
“Oh, no,” he laughs. “Don’t get the wrong idea.”
I give percy a shake and zip up. The last spurt still runs down me bloody leg. Bet that don’t happen to Paul either.
The wrong idea? The guy’s got the plump face of a thirty-year-old choirboy. Pity poor Eppy ain’t still alive, he’d be in his fucking element.
“I think all queers should be shot,” fat choirboy assures me.
“Well, seeing it from your perspective . . .” The Doctor starts to back away. This guy’s out-weirding me without even trying.
“What’s the concert like?”
The music comes around the corner as a grey echo, drowned in the smell of piss and disinfectant. “It’s mostly shit, what do yer expect?”
“Yeah,” he nods. His accent is funny. I think it’s some bastard kind of Brummy until I suddenly realise he’s American. “They sold out, didn’t they?”
“The Beatles never sold in.”
“Bloody hypocrites. All that money going to waste.”
&nb
sp; Some other guy comes in, stares at us as he wees. Gives his leg a shake, walks out again. Choirboy and I stand in stupid silence. It’s one of them situations yer find yerself in. But anyone who thinks that the Beatles are crap can’t be all bad.
“You used to be in the Beatles, didn’t you?”
I stare at him. No one’s recognised me just from me face in years. I’ve got me glasses on, me specially grey and wrinkled disguise.
“Oh, I’ve read all about the Beatles,” he assures me, giving his mop a twirl.
I’ve half a mind to say, If yer’re that interested give me the fucking mop and yer can have me seat, but there’s something about him that I wouldn’t trust next to Cal.
“Hey,” he smiles. “Listen in there. Sounds like they’re doing the encore.”
Which of course is “Yesterday”, like Oh deary me, we left it out by accident from the main show and thought we would just pop it in here. Not a dry seat in the bloody house.
Choirboy’s still grinning at me. I see he’s got a paperback in the pocket of his overall. Catcher in the Rye. “They’ll be a big rush in a minute,” he says. “More mess for me to clean up. Even Jesus wouldn’t like this job.”
“Then why do yer do it? The pay can’t be spectacular.”
“Well, this is just casual work. I’ll probably quit after tonight.”
“Yeah, pal. I know all about casual work.”
“But this is interesting, gets you into places. I like to be near to the stars. I need to see how bad they are.” He cracks that grin a little wider. “Tell me,” he says, “what’s Paul really like?”
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