Who Didn’t Want to be a Beatle

• Time 1967-1977
• Place UK
• Artist The Beatles

Young dreamers

As 1964 rolled in and the Fab Four’s meteoric rise captured the world’s imagination, it seemed like every youngster suddenly wanted to pick up an instrument and join a band. Learning to play the guitar was challenge enough, but finding other kids my age who shared the same dream was even harder. Then came Demetrius—better known to everyone as Dimmy. He let slip that he not only had a drum kit, but also access to his father’s café, where we could rehearse in the back room once the doors were closed for the night. That revelation sealed his place in my fledgling band. With two of us now on board and word beginning to spread, it wasn’t long before the pieces of my first group started falling into place.

Trying to track down a twelve-year-old singer was a lost cause—no one was brave (or foolish) enough to step up to the mic. So, by default, we became an instrumental outfit. Our grand repertoire stretched to a mighty six or seven Shadows tunes, with “Wipe Out” by the Surfaris thrown in for good measure. It wasn’t exactly the Beatles at Shea Stadium, but to us it felt like the start of something huge.

Over the next few years, our band’s line-up changed more often than a jazz bass line. As teenagers, our voices were cracking and shifting at an alarming rate, but finally, it gave us a chance to recruit a proper vocalist. Alan Carney, a classmate, was the first to step up. His singing might not have been anything to write home about—emotion and melody were decidedly absent—but he had the guts to front the band. Oddly enough, that lack of polish somehow worked in our favour, giving our performances a strangely spectacular edge.

Beatlemania draws me in

I was hooked, like the rest of the UK, by Beatlemania. I devoured every newspaper and magazine, played every record they released, and spent hours daydreaming about meeting them. As soon as I could wobble around on my tiny Honda Sport 90 motorbike, I discovered that John Lennon and Ringo Starr lived on the St George’s Hill Estate in Surrey. Naturally, I decided I had to see it for myself.

Back then, the estate wasn’t gated, so you could just ride around like a very small, very hopeful tourist. I’d never seen so many stunning homes in one place, and of course, there was no way to tell which one belonged to my heroes. One day, spotting a milkman on his round, I summoned my courage and asked him for directions. He turned out to be a treasure trove of gossip: John lived at Kenwood, which he’d bought for £25,000, and Ringo had just snapped up his house from none other than Peter Sellers for £35,000.

The milkman – the font of all knowledge

I practically rode straight to Kenwood, though my motorbike could only take me to the bottom of the steep drive. From there, I peered up at the house in the distance, heart hammering. Standing there, tiny and awkward on my bike, it felt like I’d stumbled into someone else’s dream—and somehow, just for a moment, it almost felt like one day it could be mine too.

Ringo’s place was more open, and from the driveway I could take in the whole property. Sadly, I never caught a glimpse of either of my heroes. Still, visiting the estate became a daily hobby. I ran into the milkman several times; he always seemed delighted to share his encyclopaedic knowledge of the neighbourhood’s famous residents.

Mia Farrow’s mother owned the most enchanting thatched-roof cottage, while Eric Sykes—the legendary English comedian, writer, actor, and director—lived in the grandiose “White Knights.” Although I secretly dreamed of one day owning a property in this prestigious area, my main goal at the time was much simpler: just to see a Beatle.

Bellyboms?

On one visit to Kenwood, I spotted two small children, around four or five years old, at the bottom of the drive. One of them looked exactly like Julian Lennon from a photo in a Beatle magazine. Mustering all my courage, I asked if their dad was home. Julian shook his head and said, “No, me and my friend are just playing Bellyboms.”

I had no idea what Julian meant by “Bellyboms,” but I made a mental note to look for the word in future Beatle songs.

Success!

Following my usual route, I headed over to Ringo’s home. In the driveway stood a sleek blue Mercedes with a man leaning casually against it. I walked over and asked if Ringo was home. The man said he was, but busy in a meeting. I pulled out my Beatle programme and asked if there was any chance it could be signed. He smiled and said that if I waited, he could get it signed for me. About thirty minutes later, he returned, wearing a reassuring smile, with my program now autographed.

London Cabbie with ‘the knowledge’

A few weeks later, I was in a London cab, heading back from Selmer’s music shop on Charing Cross Road, my guitar case beside me. The driver glanced at it and said, “I had one of your mates in the cab today.”

“Who was that then?” I asked.

“That scruffy bloke with the long hair and his Japanese girlfriend,” he replied.

I knew instantly—John and Yoko. I asked where he’d dropped them off, and he told me: Montagu Square, Marylebone.

That very evening I jumped on my trusty bike and set off for Montagu Square. Riding up the one-way street, I could hardly believe my eyes—there was Ringo’s Mercedes parked outside, with the driver still sitting in it. I pulled up alongside, and he rolled down the window, staring at me in disbelief. “Fuck me, how did you find out about this? They only moved in today!”

I explained about the cabbie, parked my bike, and peered down into the basement flat. There was John Lennon, unmistakable, holding the Sgt. Pepper drum skin, with Yoko at his side.

I chatted with the driver for a few minutes, swore I wouldn’t tell a soul, then rode off into the night. I never did manage to get John’s autograph, but that evening was the first of a few unexpected encounters with him.

Rehearsals

At six o’clock every evening, I’d set off on my motorbike and head over to Marylebone Road to pick up my good friend and bandmate, Brian Eden, from work. From there, we’d rendezvous with our drummer, Freddie Pacitti, and lead guitarist, Tony Colleti, at a newsagents on Abbey Road. The shop belonged to Johnny Jones—our manager at the time—who generously let us use the cavernous basement beneath it for nightly rehearsals.

Being based so close to Abbey Road Studios was pure magic. There were countless occasions when we’d see the Beatles themselves coming and going—fleeting glimpses of our idols in the flesh. For a bunch of teenagers obsessed with music, it was electrifying.

Joining the Paparrazi

One late night after rehearsal, I was stopped at a red light on Grove End Road, just past Abbey Road Studios. To my right, a familiar blue Mercedes pulled up. At the wheel was none other than Ringo Starr—clearly his chauffeur’s night off—with his wife beside him and John and Yoko in the back. I knew John and Yoko had just moved into Ringo’s Montagu Square flat, so I guessed that was where they were headed.

I raced ahead on my motorbike, parked up outside the apartment, and waited. When the Mercedes pulled in, I darted across the road with my camera at the ready. My heart was pounding as I fumbled to get a shot, and in my nervous state I only managed to capture John in the frame. Then, just as I was lining up another, a loud, comical, cow like “moo” filled the night air. Startled, I turned towards the source of the sound only to see it was Ringo leaning on the horn, clearly unimpressed with my antics. Feeling more than a little foolish, I made a hasty retreat.

I didn’t know the word “paparazzi” back then, but that night made one thing perfectly clear: it wasn’t the career for me.

Bad timing and bad language

On another occasion, as I was passing Abbey Road Studios, I spotted George Harrison coming down the steps on his way to his white long-wheelbase Mercedes-Benz.

Once I reached the car park, George had got behind the wheel while John Lennon strolled towards the passenger side. By sheer luck, I happened to be carrying a copy of Magical Mystery Tour with me.

Summoning every ounce of courage, I approached just as John reached for the door and asked if he’d sign it for me. At that exact moment, the car door swung open, smacked my hand, and sent the record flying onto the tarmac. Without missing a beat, Lennon growled, “Why don’t you fuck off?”

Mortified, I bent down to pick up my precious EP, but couldn’t resist firing back: “I helped pay for that bloody car you’re getting into!”

Sorry George

During my two wheeled adventures, I discovered where George Harrison lived in Esher, Surrey. I rode down the long driveway and parked my bike. At the end, to the right, stood the most extraordinary bungalow, its walls daubed with graffiti. The boldest scrawl declared: Mick and Marianne were here. Parked outside was George’s immaculate white long-wheelbase Mercedes-Benz.

I took a deep breath, walked up to the front door, and rang the bell. A lady answered, and I asked, “I’m sorry to bother you, but if George is in, would he kindly sign my Beatle program for me?” She smiled and said, “He’s in the shower just now, but he’ll be leaving for London soon. If you wait by the gate, you’ll catch him.”

So I waited. Before long, the Mercedes engine roared to life. As George pulled out, I must have startled him, because the back of his car scraped against the gatepost. He wound down the window and asked, “What happened there then?”

Sheepishly, I replied, “I think you scraped your car on the gate.” He didn’t look too pleased. Without another word, he reached out, took my programme, scribbled his autograph, and drove off.

I felt bad—but probably not as bad as George did.

Nice advice from Paul

By this time, I had a fair idea where all the Beatles lived and I knew Paul’s address: 7 Cavendish Avenue, St John’s Wood. I also knew he often walked home from Abbey Road Studios and had often been seen walking in the area late at night with his Old English Sheepdog, Martha by his side.

One late night, Brian and I were leaving our rehearsal basement on Abbey Road when we spotted Paul heading home with Martha. Not wanting to bother him in the middle of the street, I circled the block slowly on my bike, hoping to arrive at his house at the same time he did.

Sure enough, as we turned into Cavendish Avenue, there was Paul, standing outside his house and chatting with two girls. We parked across the road and nervously approached. He looked a little wary at first and said, “Hi guys, can I help you?”

Brian and I stammered something about our band and our songwriting, trying not to sound like complete fools. To our amazement, Paul was incredibly kind. He told us about a new company the Beatles were opening in Savile Row—Apple—and suggested we send in our tapes once it was up and running. He even added, almost as a parting piece of advice, that should Apple not be interested, we shouldn’t give up—just keep going and persevere. We thanked him and left him to continue his conversation with the girls.
For reasons I’ll never understand, we never followed up with Apple. Others did, though—Tony Wilson and Errol Brown walked straight in with their demo of Give Peace a Chance. Lennon loved it, and soon enough he signed their band—Hot Chocolate.

Paul, Disney and Phil McDonald

In 1973, Paul McCartney booked into Studio 2. I can’t recall exactly what the project was, but I do remember that Paul was there every day, working on sessions that involved pairing his band’s music with Disney film footage. Nothing ever came of it, though.

Over the next few years, I became good friends with his engineer, Phil McDonald, who later told me the project had been shelved. The reason, he explained, was that the band had gone through a reshuffle of members, and Paul wasn’t keen on crediting the previous line-up.

Wings

In 1997, Wings booked Studio 1 for a marathon ten months. During that time, whenever staff weren’t tied up with other sessions, we’d often sit in with Phil, just in case he needed any guidance with the desk or studio setup. It felt surreal to see Paul and Linda strolling through the building every day, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world.

One morning, I was alone in the lounge bar while all the musicians had gone downstairs for their ten o’clock start. To my surprise, Linda came in and asked if she could join me. Naturally, I said yes. We ended up chatting for about half an hour, and somehow the conversation drifted onto her fondness for the TV duo The Two Ronnies. It was a simple, genuine moment—just two people talking about comedy shows over a quiet cup of tea—yet it stuck with me all these years.

There was also another occasion when I was sitting in a restaurant with my three-year-old son, Nathan, when Paul walked in and asked if he could join us. At one point he turned to Nathan and asked, “Are you going to be a singer one day?”

To my surprise, Nathan shook his head. “No,” he said. “I don’t like music. When my dad comes home from the studio, he plays the same song over and over.”

I had to smile and explain to Nathan that one day he would really appreciate who we’d been sitting with—but at three, he was blissfully unconcerned.

Cringing with Paul and Bruce

At the time, Pickwick Records would hire three studios once a month to bash out budget versions of the latest chart hits—the sort of cheap compilations you’d spot on racks in Woolworths. To be frank, the Pickwick albums were dreadful knock-offs, though oddly enough, I met people over the years who swore blind they were the real thing.

One Monday morning, I found myself in Studio 4 with the ever-brilliant Bruce Baxter, who arranged and produced every track, dashing between studios like a man possessed in order to keep the production line moving.

That day it was just Bruce and me, tackling a cut-price version of Wings’ new hit, Mull of Kintyre. We’d laid down a guide acoustic guitar with a click track, and Bruce was about to attempt the first of what would be twelve moog synthesizer parts combining with the intent to mimic bagpipes.

Right then, the door opened and in walked Paul. “Mind if I sit in?” he asked. Well, what could we say? It was Paul McCartney. And so there he was, perched in the control room, listening to us butcher his latest masterpiece.

The tape rolled, the first track of the world’s least convincing bagpipes wheezed out, sounding like a cat being ironed and I endured the longest five minutes of my life. When it finally ended, Bruce—ever the diplomat—told Paul that Billy Kinsley would be in later to record the vocals. (Billy, formerly of The Merseybeats and Liverpool Express, could manage a passable McCartney impression.) Paul, unfailingly polite, just smiled and said, “It’s going to be good—thanks for letting me sit in.”

Even now, I sometimes wonder what he really thought.

Of course, as hit records became more complex—songs like Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody or 10cc’s I’m Not in Love—the idea of reproducing them within the limited studio time allocated became impossible. There was simply no way to make those tracks profitable so mercifully they stopped producing them.

Enigmatic

Paul would often pop into various sessions, and of course, no one ever refused him entry. On one occasion, the comedian and impersonator Freddie Starr was recording an album simply called “Freddie Starr.” Coincidentally, Bruce Baxter had done the arrangements for the album. To everyone’s delight, Paul and Linda popped in and ended up singing backing vocals on a couple of tracks. How lovely was that?

On 21st October, I attended my final session, sitting in on the Wings Over America recordings. Knowing it would be my last, I brought along a picture of Paul and asked if he would sign it. He kindly did—but when I asked him to date it, he refused. I asked him why and he replied, “That’s for me to know, and for you to figure out,” Sheepishly, I took the pen and added the date myself.

I rarely asked clients for autographs, but when I did—Fred Astaire, for example—they always dated them for me.

That date marked the end of my pre-Apple days. As for the night outside his St John’s Wood home… well, I never mentioned it to Paul, and to this day I still don’t know why.