As 1966 began, we knew the Beatles were changing. They were older and richer and more confident and they were becoming tired of their boxes. The old days of Brian pushing them into night-after-night live performances were on the way out. But no one knew at that stage that by the summer their reign at the world’s greatest live entertainers would be over for good. Brian was concerned that he was losing control and he agreed to allow the Beatles their longest break. They did not give any live performances at all until 1 May. And that concert, a 15-minute set at the New Musical Express Annual Poll-Winners All-Star Concert at the Empire Pool, Wembley, was the last concert appearance the Beatles were to make in Britain.
After Wembley, Brian had organised a tour of West Germany, Japan, the Philippines and the United States for the summer and a tour of Britain was promised for the autumn. The Beatles returned to Hamburg, for the first time since their extraordinary fame had blossomed, and found themselves fêted by their original fans. It was great nostalgic fun, but after that it was downhill fast. Hurricane Kit interrupted the flight to Japan and the pilot was forced to divert to Anchorage in Alaska. An illustration of the Beatles’ popularity arrived when 400 Alaskan Beatles fans besieged the boys in their temporary hotel rooms. George said, ‘There’s just nowhere we can go on the planet and not be stared at.’
In Japan, the Beatles flew into massive protests as thousands of demonstrators jammed the streets to insist that pop music should not be played in the sacred Nippon Budokan, which was the venue for five Beatles shows in three days. Eventually, a massive policing operation allowed the concerts to go ahead but the military-style backdrop hardly produced the most memorable performances from the boys.
But the strife in Japan was nothing compared to the chaos that awaited the Beatles in the Philippines. The boys were invited to a reception organised in their honour at the Malacanang Palace by President Marcos and his colourful first lady Imelda. Their children were Beatles fans, it seemed. The only trouble was that we knew almost nothing about this reception.
An official from the palace arrived at the hotel to collect the Beatles. They were all still in bed and Brian firmly refused to wake them. We thought nothing more of it until next day when we woke to screaming headlines about Imelda being stood up and the Beatles insulting the whole of the country with their churlish snub. Brian was horrified and he blamed the promoter for not properly passing on the invitation, but by then it was too late. The damage was done.
We got bomb threats and death threats as the stories of how the presidential party and their 400 guests were kept waiting by the Beatles. The promoter announced he was withholding the payment for the concerts. Then the authorities weighed in and insisted we could not leave the country until the tax on the money we hadn’t been paid was forthcoming. Brian taped an apology to be broadcast on Philippine television but mysteriously a burst of static prevented it from being seen. We decided to pay the money and run. But that was not as easy as it sounded. Security became distinctly lacklustre and the Beatles party were jostled and kicked as they left the hotel for the airport. The airport manager got in on the anti-Beatles act by leaving the party to fend for itself against an increasingly angry mob. The escalators stopped and this made it more difficult for the party to carry their baggage upstairs. The boys were pushed and shoved and Brian was knocked over at one point in a frightening ordeal. The boys were booed all the way and even when they got on the plane, the authorities insisted they were not going to be allowed to leave. There was an agonising stand-off for 45 minutes before it was finally allowed to take off for New Delhi via Bangkok.
The Beatles were absolutely furious that they had been exposed to such danger. Brian suffered a sprained ankle but the earache he received from the boys was much more painful. Brian was distraught. Even in India they were besieged by fans and became more and more truculent and homesick. When they arrived back at London Airport on 8 July, George Harrison was asked what was next on the schedule. He said prophetically, ‘We have a couple of weeks to recuperate before we go and get beaten up by the Americans.’
There is a very funny thing about showbusiness. Just when you think things cannot get worse, they do. The whole Far Eastern experience upset Brian and it changed his relationship with the boys. Brian was left feeling quite ill and had gone off to Portmeirion in North Wales to convalesce. He had gone up in his Rolls with his chauffeur. Suddenly, the story broke that John Lennon had said the Beatles were more popular than Jesus and all hell was let loose.
The quote had been taken from an Evening Standard interview that had been published five months earlier in Britain to absolutely no reaction. But an American teenage magazine called Datebook had used the material again under a syndication agreement. Only they had taken John’s quotes completely out of context and splashed a trailer on the front page that LENNON SAYS THE BEATLES ARE GREATER THAN JESUS. In fact, what he had actually been saying was, ‘Isn’t it pathetic that we can pull bigger crowds than Christ can?’
The reaction spread across the United States like a forest fire with the most heated fury occurring down in the southern Bible Belt. Scores of radio stations announced they were banning Beatles records and people started organising bonfires to burn Beatles-related merchandise. A so-called ‘holy war’ against the Beatles erupted. In Mississippi, an imperial wizard of the dreaded Ku Klux Klan said he believed that the Beatles had been brainwashed by the Communist Party.
I couldn’t get Brian on the telephone and the news from America was terrible. The Bible Belt was up in arms, the Ku Klux Klan were involved and the whole thing was a step away from a full diplomatic incident. I couldn’t cope with this. It was a week before the Beatles’ fourth American tour and I was getting panic phone calls to say that the boys would be lynched if they turned up. Television news bulletins were full of coverage from the Southern states with people hurling records on to huge bonfires and politicians and priests delivering threats of divine retribution. It was Beatlemania in reverse and all the more frightening. Brian finally rang me and I had to arrange to get him back from North Wales to London and over to America as quickly as possible.
I organised a private plane from a little airport called Hawarden. It was a difficult time for flights because it was the summer. TWA were on strike. We were using Pan-Am and the planes were all booked solid and there was a waiting list. We gave Pan-Am a lot of business so I pulled a few strings and we found Brian a first-class seat. Getting him to the plane proved more difficult. His driver got lost in the Welsh mountains and he was terribly late arriving at Heathrow, so I found myself having to persuade the airport authorities to let this little plane land on the main runway right next to the Pan-Am jet. The head of Air Traffic Control had about 100 reasons why this was not possible. I tried to explain this was a matter of life and death and involved the future of the Beatles, and fortunately he was a fan. I could have kissed him when he screwed up his face and said, ‘Well, all right then. Just this once.’ The pilot was so astonished the landing instructions had to be repeated to him no less than six times. Brian was very apologetic when he arrived but even then there was another panic when he got on the Pan-Am plane and then realised he had forgotten his tablets. He had to take one every three hours on strict instructions from his doctor. They were in his suitcase! So I then had to persuade Pan-Am to let me get Brian’s Gucci suitcases out on the tarmac and search frantically through them for his precious pills with a plane-load of impatient people watching me. It was not exactly my greatest moment but I found them and Brian and the much-delayed jet were able to take off.
He went to America to try to save the situation. He offered to cancel the tour but nobody really wanted that. Brian left me at Heathrow saying, ‘Look after the boys. Tell them it will be all right. I’ll sort it out.’ I went back into town and we had a meeting. I have never seen them so scared. There had been loads of death threats before but they had never seemed that serious. All of a sudden, the four of them realised what massive targets they were for any loony with a gun. And America is not exactly short of those. Lennon was absolutely shit-scared. They all were. I remember the way they made it clear they were totally together on this. They didn’t blame John at all because he had been completely misinterpreted. At that meeting, they were all for pulling out of the tour. John said, ‘Does Brian really want the tour to go ahead with all these nutters promising death and destruction? It’s our fucking lives on the line. We don’t want to go to America.’
I was scared for Brian because I knew he was a potential target as well. On the morning of their flight to America, they really didn’t want to get on that plane. It was a very scary time. It brought home to all of the Beatles how very vulnerable they were. For all the millions of people who adored them, the Beatles knew that there were a sad, mad few who would like nothing more than to blow them away. John took to carrying a gun around for a while which caused a few problems. I think if he had ever needed to use it, he would have been more of a danger to himself than to anyone else.
The Beatles’ opening press conference took place up on the twenty-seventh floor of the Astor Towers Hotel in Chicago and should have been the usual jokey affair with the boys wisecracking their way through it in their usual easy-going style. But the Jesus affair had set a new agenda. John was to be made to apologise, but that wasn’t easy. There was a lot of pressure on John and he broke down beforehand. He told me afterwards that he realised for the first time then that he wasn’t as tough as he thought he was. ‘I never wanted to retract a frigging word,’ he said. ‘It was all true. I was just saying how crazy it was that the Beatles had becoming more popular than Jesus. But then this massive row kicked off and they kept accusing me of blasphemy. To be honest, I never gave a shit what they accused me of but I imagined some religious nutter would take a shot at one of us and that would be all down to me. I didn’t want that so I went through with saying sorry.’
In the press conference, John struggled to justify himself but he was on the spot and in the end he had to say the one word which he always found hard to drag out – sorry. But anyone who was at that press conference knew that sorrow was the last thing John Lennon felt about that affair.
John Lennon did not think he had done a damn thing wrong and they just about had to drag the words out of him for once. And if you listen to the apology, it was very half-hearted. John just about got away with it, but if you ever look at that famous footage you can see John Lennon wasn’t sorry about anything.
It was not a happy tour. There were stadium invasions and Ku Klux Klan demonstrations that tarnished the Beatles image. And, more frighteningly, on 19 August, there was an anonymous telephone call that said one or all the Beatles would be shot during the two shows that day in Memphis. During the second show, a firecracker was thrown on to the stage and the four Beatles were all scared stiff. They were playing huge venues to make as much money as possible with the least effort and sometimes, even in America, their amazing pulling power sagged a little. Shea Stadium was left with 10,000 unsold tickets when they had easily sold out all 55,000 the year before. Revolver had just been released and the new music was more demanding than the earlier songs. Not all the fans liked this musical advance.
The boys themselves were desperately frustrated. John opened up to me about the agonies of touring. ‘What is the point of standing there just for people to scream at us. They can’t hear us, they can hardly see us. And the whole mad business of hurtling round the world protected by security men and police is driving me out of my mind. I reckon we could send out four waxwork dummies of ourselves and that would satisfy the crowds. Beatles concerts are nothing to do with music any more. They’re just bloody tribal rites. What are we doing this for?’
That whole incident was the start for the Beatles of the fear that fame brings. Until then, they had been scared mainly of the prospect of being pulled limb from limb by hysterical teenage girls. That doesn’t sound so frightening until you’ve seen a few thousand of them on the rampage. It is honestly terrifying because the crowd builds up a sort of energy and momentum of its own. Of course, a few young girls are nothing for a grown man to worry about, but there would be streets full of them all whipped up into a frenzy and all desperate for a piece of their favourite Beatle.
‘I never thought I’d run away from attractive young women,’ said Ringo laconically one day. ‘But by the time they actually get near us, they seem to be completely out of their brains. I reckon if we’d used this lot in the war, we’d have overrun Germany in about a fortnight.’
But the more sinister threats from religious groups, lone fanatics or any fired-up fruitcake began to prey on all their minds from then on.
Cynthia was very frightened about what might happen to Julian. She realised he was a prime kidnap target and she installed guards who watched the house very early on. John objected at first because he didn’t like anybody watching what time he came in, but even he saw the wisdom of it.
The news footage from the United States after the ‘more famous than Christ’ publicity was simply chilling. George was always the most reluctant Beatle. He loved the music and he certainly enjoyed the girls on the road, but he hated the intrusion that came with being a Beatle. Several times he quit and each time Brian managed to cajole him back into the group. Brian always told George how much he would be letting the others down, how the Beatles would die if he ever left them, how the wonderful music he was making would be such a great loss to the world if he quit. Brian could be very persuasive when he put his mind to it. But the longer George went on, the harder it became for him to stop. Ringo wasn’t too fazed by the fame. He never was the brightest star in the galaxy, but he was scared by the threats. Nutters would phone in to say they were going to leave a bomb for John or Paul. Or they were going to shoot George or Ringo with a long-range rifle.
At first, we just used to laugh in the office about it and have a joke with the boys about keeping their heads down. It never seemed that serious until we saw the Americans burning albums after John’s Christ remarks. Then Brian saw the effect it was having on the boys and told us to be more discreet. We never had a policy as such but I always thought laughing down the phone might be enough to put them off. The boys all became paranoid about their personal safety. I would book them on planes under all sorts of names but it was impossible to hide them for very long. Their popularity was so unstoppable that there was a sort of jungle telegraph that seemed to follow them around wherever they went. You couldn’t expect the police to keep anything secret. They spent hours signing photographs for coppers’ kids and standing being photographed next to a beaming detective and his family.
No one ever announced that the Beatles final concert of the tour at San Francisco’s Candlestick Park on 29 August was going to be the last live concert they ever played. It was a chilly night and the Beatles played for just 33 minutes on a stage built over the second base and caged in by a 6ft-high wire fence guarded by 250 police. In case of trouble, an armoured car stood by. But they closed for the only time on that tour with their favourite finale, ‘Long Tall Sally’. And just before they started, as he was running on stage, Paul told my friend Tony Barrow, the press relations man, to record the concert. He only had his little tape recorder used for taping interviews and he was surprised to get the request but he dutifully did his best. To most people, it was just another concert, but to the Beatles, after nine harrowing years and more than 1,400 live concert appearances, it was the end of life on the road. As they later flew out of San Francisco, it was George Harrison who became the band’s spokesman as he settled back into his first-class seat and said, ‘Well, that’s it. I’m not a Beatle any more.’
Brian was never quite the same after that tour. It took an awful lot out of him and I’m afraid his dependence on drugs of all descriptions seemed to grow. The money rolled in as before, but Brian’s energy and drive took a real dip. He would stay away from the office much more than ever before, for without the great tours to plan and undertake, he found his own personal workload cut down drastically.
It was a sad decline. He had so many prescribed pills and he took all the other drugs as well. I hated to watch him depending on drugs. I think he knew that the Beatles no longer needed him as much as they had needed him before. He never did get very involved in the studio. He trusted the boys and George Martin to do the business there and he was right to do so. But once the touring stopped, he was certainly left with time on his hands and Brian was never very good at relaxation. I think he could see the end of his involvement.
The Beatles were much more interested in advancing their music, and experimenting in the studio. The contrast between that wonderfully fulfilling work and the lunacy of life on the road simply became so great that the decision to stop touring was inevitable. They were producing the most fantastic songs and Paul said to me, ‘We could never do any of this on stage. It’s just too complex.’ They could not produce A Day in the Life on stage or a lot of the Rubber Soul stuff on stage. And however cynical they all were at one time or another, the truth is that, deep down, the Beatles were an honest band. They did not want to short-change their fans. The new stuff was simply far more interesting to them than standing up and singing ‘Love Me Do’ for the 5,000th time.
There never was an official leader of the Beatles, but in the early days it was clear that John Lennon was the dominant member of the group. In a very early interview, Paul even commented that John was the leader. He had a presence and a power that gave him the unspoken authority over the group. John was a genius and, to my mind, the unquestioned leader. Paul McCartney was brilliant and possibly the greatest public relations man in the world.
Lulu was desperate to get in touch with Paul. I was horrified when Peter Brown gave her Paul’s number in High Park. I went ballistic at Brown. Private phone numbers were guarded like precious jewels, and Lulu only wanted it so she could ask Paul to appear on her television show.
Mick Jagger and John Lennon were great buddies. They loved this rumour that ran around that the Beatles were the White Hats and the Stones were the Black Hats. You wouldn’t mind your daughter going out with a Beatle, but you would object strongly if she went out with a Rolling Stone.
Marianne Faithfull became a close friend of the boys. Brian and I met her with Andrew Oldham on Ready Steady Go. She was a beautiful young girl with a fantastic figure. We were in the studio’s green room after the show and she came up and really set her stall out at Brian. She had a very, very low-cut dress on and she pointed her charming chest at Brian and got as close to him as decency would allow. She was sadly ignorant of Brian’s sexual persuasion but he was perfectly polite to her and was quite impressed. ‘She seems a very friendly girl,’ he said, ‘but I’m not sure I am very keen on having her breasts thrust in my face. Do you think she was trying to tell me something?’
The Beatles’ involvement with drugs has been massively exaggerated over the years, but they certainly experimented more than most people. It was Paul who first admitted the truth to the Press in a very unscheduled interview which I tried hard to interrupt.
I had been asked round to see Paul at Cavendish Avenue, but when I arrived the security gates were firmly shut and I couldn’t raise an answer on the security intercom. But I knew Paul was in because I could hear his voice. I was forced to resort to climbing over the wall. Not very dignified for a smart-suited executive, I know. But, hey, this is the crazy music business. I scrambled down inside the large and elegant gardens and, to my horror, I heard Paul cheerfully confessing to using marijuana because he found it so relaxing. My heart sank into my shiny shoes when I realised the guy he was talking to was a reporter. With as much confidence and authority as I could muster, which was pretty well zero, I tried to interrupt this impromptu press conference which I was convinced was instantly going to burst the bubble of popularity the Beatles had inflated.
‘Er, Paul,’ I bumbled, ‘could I have a word?’
‘It’s OK, Al. It’s cool,’ said Paul without removing the easy grin from his face.
‘But, I’m not sure that Brian would …’
‘It’s OK, Al. Relax. It’s time the truth came out.’
I was horrified, because at this time there had been accusations and colourful stories and all the rest of it but none of the Beatles had stood up and admitted that they used illegal drugs. Paul clearly thought the time for this hypocrisy was over and the reporter’s notebook was by now twitching nervously in case this scoop was going to be snatched away from him. Paul introduced me to the reporter and told me to relax and carried on telling the world how much the Beatles enjoyed smoking cannabis. It did create a storm but the Beatles weathered it easily and I came to realise the extent of Paul’s talent for public relations. He hadn’t talked to Brian or the other three before going public. And for all the notice he took of my nervous warnings, I might as well have stayed on the other side of the wall.
Mind you, when it came to odd requests, John gave me the biggest shock. We were at Abbey Road after a recording session and John laid down his guitar, turned to me and said, ‘Alistair, I want you to buy me an island.’ I thought this was just another example of the customary Lennon banter and responded: ‘Fine, John. What’ll it be? The Isle of Wight? The Isle of Man? A Caribbean island?’
He said, ‘No, man. I’m absolutely serious. I need to have a place entirely of my own. I want an island with a fresh water supply and green grass.’ And he handed me a piece of paper with island, fresh water and grass written on it. This was clearly a plan he had devoted several seconds to preparing. ‘I want to build a house on it to get some peace and privacy. Somewhere Cyn and I can go to get away. Oh, and it mustn’t be more than two hours from London,’ said John. This was an interesting challenge, I had to admit. Not since George had asked me to buy him a church had I been handed such a poser. In that case, George had pretty soon gone off the idea of sleeping on the altar so I could forget all about it. But John was as near to serious as he ever managed to be. I contacted the big estate agents and drew a blank, but a couple of days after John’s request there was an ad in the Times personal column: ‘Island for sale off the west coast of Ireland. The Westport Harbour Board will hold a public auction …’
My instant reaction was that this was yet another Lennon wind-up. The sequence of events was a little too coincidental so I rang Cynthia to see if this was an elaborate John joke. She swore John was not messing around this time. He really did want an island and she liked the sound of their own little Emerald Isle. So before you could say ‘Top of the morning’ to a leprechaun, I was on a flight to Ireland. The island for sale was called Dorinish in Clew Bay off Connaught. I finally arrived by motorboat to find that this particular piece of real estate was in fact two islands joined by a sand and pebble spit of land and measuring around 30 acres. It was fairly flat, with lovely beaches and a freshwater spring. If you really wanted to get away from it all, Dorinish seemed an excellent place to go. I took photos, noted that the only sign of habitation was the pile of stones, which was all that remained of the old pilot’s cottage. I got the snaps developed and took them out to Kenwood, John’s house in Weybridge. He took one look and shouted, ‘That’s it! I’ve got to have it! Go and buy it for me, Alistair.’
The only snag was that the auction was the very next day. I couldn’t get another flight at such short notice so I had to rush to get the boat train from Euston to Holyhead. Brian’s brother Clive arranged for his chauffeur to meet me on the platform at Crewe and give me £800 for a deposit. Only the train didn’t stop at Crewe. The poor chap found out eventually and drove all the way to Holyhead getting not one but two speeding tickets and gave me the money there.
When I arrived in Westport by mid-morning, I decided to call on the auctioneer Mr Browne, who had his office in the local milliner’s shop. In his inner sanctum tucked away behind the drapery and hats, we struck up a quick friendship. He was an elderly man and he had lived in London in his youth and wanted to chat about the capital. I was happy to talk and to share an enormous glass of Jameson’s with him. Something positive must have clicked in him as he leaned forward and asked me earnestly, ‘Do you really want to buy this island?
‘Very much,’ I said, ‘but I’m only a young businessman and my limit is probably less than £2,000.’ If I’d said I was buying it for John Lennon, the price would have been £2 million. Mr Browne looked conspiratorially at me and winked. He said, ‘There’s a syndicate from Manchester who want to put a casino on our island. The reserve price is £1,550. If you want my advice, you’ll let my son, Michael, who is the only solicitor here in Westport, do the bidding for you.’
Something about the twinkle in the old man’s eye made me do as I was told. When the auction began, Mr Browne sung the barren island’s praises as if he was about to auction Manhattan. I began to regret that I had pitched my limit so low as the bidding went steadily up to £1,000 and beyond. Mr Browne’s son was hidden behind a large newspaper, taking no part in the bidding. Finally, the price rose to £1,500 and my palms were sweating. I started to wonder if the Brownes had taken me for a mug by promising to handle my bidding. But I should have had more trust in my judgement.
Father Browne spoke up during a brief pause. ‘Any further bids?’
From behind the newspaper, young Browne declared, ‘£1,550.’
‘Done,’ came the decisive voice of my friend the auctioneer and I was at least briefly the proud owner of my very own island. There was a gasp that rang round the room at this dramatic end to the auction and the men from Manchester started to protest. I went towards Michael to congratulate him, but he had already left. I left as the Manchester men’s uproar grew and telephoned John. He was delighted, especially about the price. Even rock millionaires like a bargain.
I reported back to John at Kenwood and he was over the moon with his purchase. He was anxious to go and visit it straight away, but I was dreading this because it meant revealing to the Brownes and others in Westport that I had not been completely straight with them over the purchase.
But after a few weeks, he pushed me into it. He brought John Dunbar from the Indica Gallery and the three of us flew off to Dublin to get a car to drive us across Ireland. The car was late and we had to wait at the airport. John chatted amiably to a few fellow travellers who were delighted to get the chance to meet a Beatle. ‘I felt almost normal for a minute or two,’ said John. ‘They were Manchester United fans. I was just trying to convert them to supporting Liverpool.’
We got into a large Austin Princess and I swear we could have floated across Ireland without using the engine because John Dunbar and John Lennon were smoking dope and popping pills as if they were going out of fashion. I was terrified that the driver would notice the pot fumes but they didn’t care. They just giggled all the way across Ireland. Then we hired an old boat and finally John got to see his island. He jumped off the boat, turned towards me, and said, ‘Fucking hell, Al. It’s fantastic. The pictures don’t even do it justice.’ He loved it. We walked all over it with John leading the way. He was like a kid in his enthusiasm. Then suddenly he stopped and yelled at us both to do the same. ‘Watch out,’ yelled John pointing down at something. ‘Don’t move,’ he shouted. I thought from his reactions he had spotted a land mine, at the very least. But it was a gull’s egg and he firmly warned us, ‘Don’t either of you tread on an egg.’ Once John had spotted the eggs we all had to tread very carefully indeed. It seems the wild man of rock was desperately keen not to break any birds’ eggs.
It was a wonderful trip. The drugs had worn off by then and this was the old John talking. He was funny and friendly and fabulous to be with. He was wearing his old Afghan coat that he loved and he put his arm round my shoulders and said, ‘This island is just great, Al. I’m going to give you a corner of it to build your house to get away from it all. That bit down there,’ he said pointing to a little peninsula jutting out into the Atlantic. ‘That bit is for you and Lesley. Build a holiday cottage and then you can escape like us.’
Nice idea, but we never did of course. After that first trip, the people of Westport were in no doubt as to who the real purchaser of the island was and the second time we went we got quite a reception. John’s friend ‘Magic’ Alex Mardas was involved by this time, with his plan to build John a house on Dorinish and a ‘recording studio which floats a foot off the ground so there are no vibrations.’
We flew this time with Gregory’s Air Taxis to a new airstrip which had been built three miles from Westport at Castlebar. We took an architect and a solicitor and John, Alex and myself. Only when we got there the pilot had some difficulty finding the new landing site. Fortunately it was a clear day and he eventually spotted it. Finding anyone on the radio to clear us to land was nothing like as easy. The two brothers who operated the strip were both vets and they were otherwise engaged delivering a calf. When we landed, we were greeted by a full civic reception with the mayor and his council all anxious to meet John Lennon.
I almost began to relax with the satisfaction of a job well done. But then John said, ‘What I want now is a boat. If I live on an island, I want my own boat so I can come and go as I please.’ I spoke to a few shipbrokers and discovered there was a motor torpedo boat for sale in Guernsey. John really liked the idea of starting his own navy. ‘I could sail up the Thames and sink the Tower of London,’ he told me, and I was despatched to the Channel Islands to take a look at this floating veteran of the Second World War. It had two huge Perkins engines and it was really fast. It had taken me a couple of hours in an old fishing boat to get to Dorinish. This MTB would get there in about five minutes.
My next job was to transport the gypsy caravan that John had in the grounds of Kenwood over to Dorinish, so I had to arrange for a raft to take it across.
A large scare over Ringo came when I managed to lose him completely somewhere in Paris’s Orly airport. He and the family were on holiday in Corsica when I got a call from Ringo demanding to come home early. Evidently the locals insisted on talking in a foreign language and the food wasn’t nearly as appealing as it is back home in Liverpool, so Ringo and wife Maureen, son Zak, plus Maureen’s mother and the nanny, wanted to come home pronto. Could I fix it?
In those days, there wasn’t another direct flight to London for almost a week. So I organised Ringo and his group to fly to Paris and I’d meet them there and bring them home in the private jet. The first part worked like a dream but we had a mix-up with the air taxi company and had to make do with a much slower twin-prop plane. When we got to Orly, Ringo’s plane had already landed. But there was no sign of my passengers. I organised a search party, divided the place into four sections and we each went off to track down Ringo and family. But he was nowhere to be seen. It was only when I bumped into Maureen in the café that I found the elusive Beatle. She pointed him out to me. The world’s most famous rock drummer was sitting forlornly with Zak on his knee surrounded by a small mountain of hand luggage. I hadn’t been there to meet him so he’d booked the party on the next flight to London and was sitting patiently waiting. Once I’d explained the circumstances, he did seem pleased to see me. As for not being mobbed, he’d enjoyed every second of his strange anonymity.
Paul is normally as cool as a cucumber but he was hot under the collar when he failed to recognise the world’s most famous saxophone player. We were at Abbey Road for another late-night recording session when Paul suddenly decided that what was needed on one particular track was a bank of saxophones. George Martin agreed and Mal was deputed to ring round the musical fixers and call up some insomniac saxophonists. It took about an hour for the first of them to arrive and after that they came quite thick and fast. Paul and I were walking together out of the canteen when a familiar face loomed enquiringly in front of us.
‘Are you a sax player?’ asked Paul helpfully.
‘Well, some people say I am,’ smiled the stranger in reply and ambled on down the corridor.
Paul looked puzzled, so as a jazz fanatic I had to explain, ‘That was Ronnie Scott.’
‘Shit,’ said Paul, with feeling. ‘You’re joking. Oh, no,’ and he rushed back after the living legend and the pair proceeded to become close friends. Ronnie thought the incident was hilarious but it made Paul’s toes curl with embarrassment.
Paul never did think much of my dress sense. In the fashionable world of the swinging ’60s in London, I was always regarded as someone who was rather straight. Paul nicknamed me ‘The Man with the Shiny Shoes’ to highlight my conservative dress code. And when I had to play a tiny fleeting part in the Beatles massive world-wide All You Need Is Love link-up in 1967, he took special precautions.
I had to pick Jane up from Cavendish Avenue on the way to the big event, which was to be beamed to some 400 million people in 25 countries. I knew my plain old business suit would not be the right thing to wear at a psychedelic party like this, so I took a bright orange shirt especially for the occasion. I tried not to look in the mirror when I put it on, hoping that it wouldn’t be the most horrible piece of clothing on view to the world. But when I arrived to collect the delectable Jane, she said, ‘Paul’s left a shirt for you, Alistair.’
I was indignant. ‘I’m wearing one. I’ve even left my tie at home.’
‘Oh that is not good enough,’ said Jane sweetly. ‘He said that he knew you would dress in straight clothes and you wouldn’t want to be in psychedelic gear, so he has bought a shirt for you to wear tonight,’ and she produced a beautifully-made silk shirt with a trendily multi-coloured pattern and I meekly accepted defeat.
The event in the huge EMI studio at Abbey Road was fabulous. There were so many famous faces in the room I think I was the only person I didn’t recognise. I was ordered to put on a sandwich board with ‘All You Need Is Love’ in Russian written on it and I hope I got the message across. The party afterwards was so good that I really didn’t care.
I realise I’m hopelessly biased but I believe that Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band is the greatest record ever made. The Beatles were at their peak and they concentrated every aspect of that amazing ability on making that album the very best. I think that maybe they knew they would never be that tight again. It took them an age to record and I never saw them pour more effort into anything.
Critics hammered them for filling the lyrics with drug symbolism and reckoned the Beatles must have been spaced out the whole time. Well, the Beatles were no strangers to strange substances but the truth is that when they were working at their very hardest, very few drugs were used. The words on the album were a great deal more innocent than a lot of people believe. ‘Four thousand holes in Blackburn, Lancashire’ is not a testimony to heroin addiction in the north-west. John had just read a newspaper article which said that Blackburn Council had sent out a guy to survey the local roads and he had counted 4,000 holes which needed filling in! So John added the bit about the Albert Hall and put the 4,000 holes into ‘Day in the Life’.
And the same goes for the even more famous ‘Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds’ which so many people were keen to point out were the initials of a widely-used hallucinogenic drug. Well, one of my personal claims to fame is that I was at Kenwood when Julian arrived home from school and I heard first-hand the origin of the famous song title. The lad brought home a picture he had drawn at school, and when John asked him what he had drawn, Julian replied, ‘That’s my girlfriend Lucy, in the sky.’ And John asked him, ‘What are all those things around her?’
‘Those are diamonds,’ said Julian. That’s what happened and never for a second did I imagine that such an innocent phrase would ever be the subject of such massive controversy.
The album cover for Sergeant Pepper had its own problems when the Beatles decide to feature scores of famous faces. The boys just looned around and drew up a fantastic list of names of people they wanted on the cover. The boys were there themselves, of course, along with wax models of their younger selves from Madame Tussaud’s, Marilyn Monroe, Diana Dors, Fred Astaire, Bob Dylan, Marlon Brando and Laurel and Hardy to name but a few. Everyone recognises them. And you might even pick out Shirley Temple, Max Miller and Karl Marx. But would you know the singer Issy Bonn, or Albert Stubbins? Albert was a Liverpool footballer whose main claim to fame was the record transfer fee he cost. And the Beatles couldn’t use any of those people’s faces until we had found them or the executors of their wills and paid them a halfpenny each for the privilege. You can imagine what a nightmare that was for Wendy Hanson but she tracked them all down in the end.
Brian Epstein was the most charming man I’ve ever met, but there was definitely another side to him. I encountered the other Brian when he flew into a rage with me at Heathrow Airport on a very sad Sunday morning. Brian had despatched me there at 6.00am to meet two American musicians he had arranged to bring over. Only, when I arrived there was no sign of them. Eventually I heard a call over the tannoy asking for the NEMS representative to go to Immigration. These two jokers had spent all the money Brian had advanced them and turned up without any of the right entry papers. The Immigration official wasn’t remotely impressed by my appeal to his better nature, or natural fairness, or the music business. He didn’t even want any tickets to a Beatles concert. He wasn’t going to budge. These two were about to be sent back out of the country any minute, so I did the only thing I could think of. I rang Brian.
By then it was around mid-morning and Brian arrived, immaculate as usual, even though I’m pretty sure he was still on his way home from his Saturday night out. He took a look at my unshaven scruffy state, sniffed, and told me he would deal with me later. He swept into Immigration and whatever he said to the officials certainly worked. The musicians were in and were sent off to their hotel.
Brian returned to me with steam coming out of both ears. He had that look of tightly controlled anger that I hadn’t seen since I had double-booked the Beatles back in 1962. ‘Just look at you,’ he snorted. ‘You’re a disgrace to the business, coming to an airport like that. You’re not even shaved.’
This time I was so furious at this unjust reprimand I answered back. ‘There was nobody here to notice my appearance at six o’clock this morning, Brian. You led me to think it would take five minutes to put them in a taxi so I didn’t dress up. Do you realise I have spent five hours trying to get them into the country?’
‘I don’t care what time it was,’ said Brian. ‘When you represent me and the Beatles, you dress properly. We must maintain the highest standards at all times. Don’t you remember the lecture I gave the Beatles when they signed the contract? The same applies to you. As for this ridiculous business, why can’t anybody be trusted to carry out a simple task? Nobody in this country can do anything at all. It’s time to set it right.’
I realised Brian was seething at whoever had made a mess of the musicians’ visas. He asked me, ‘Do you have any sixpences?’ I gave him some and he strode over to a row of pay phones. I watched, transfixed as he dialled a number. He just said, ‘Good morning. This is Brian speaking. Just to let you know you are fired.’ He put the receiver down and went through the same process over and again until he had sacked the entire board of directors of NEMS, with the solitary exception of his brother Clive. I couldn’t believe what I was witnessing. He was cutting NEMS to shreds all because of a mix-up over two guitarists who looked like a waste of space anyway.
Then he turned to me and said that I was fired, too. I was furious now. I said, ‘Good. Because I don’t want to stay to be treated like this. I have been up since the small hours of the morning working for you and if you think you can find someone who can do the job better then that is fine. I’ve had enough. You can stick your job. I’ll be in tomorrow morning to clear my desk.’ I started to walk away and I could hear Brian shouting behind me, ‘Alistair, come back. Let’s talk.’ But I was so angry I couldn’t have talked and I was on my way out. He rang me a couple of times at home that afternoon trying to make peace but I was still fuming. It wasn’t until the next day when I went in to get my things that we talked. I had got the contents of my desk in my briefcase when Brian came into my office very crestfallen. ‘Please come back, Alistair. No one can fix things for the Beatles like you.’
Naturally, I gave in on the spot. I always was a sucker for flattery, and I think I understood that Brian was at least partly entitled to blow his top the day before. But I had to ask him what he was going to do with all the directors he had sacked yesterday. I left him going through a list of apologies.
The invention of the Beatles always amazed me. George Martin was terrific here. He used his great musical ability to interpret what they wanted. He would always be careful not to put them down. He said to me once when I asked him how it worked, ‘They have a gift. I have to help them give it to the world.’ Sometimes they would come up with some pretty strange requests. John once wanted a certain sound and he was finding it impossible to describe. It wasn’t a musical noise but he just couldn’t quite pin it down. He kept disappearing from the studio and wandering round the offices. At last he came rushing back in shouting, ‘I’ve got it.’ He was carrying a short-wave radio that he had found in one of the offices and he wanted the crackling sound the radio made to be fed into the board. George didn’t raise so much as an eyebrow. He just arranged for the radio to be recorded. I can’t think of many producers who would do that!
Just because most Beatles songs are credited to John and Paul as composers, it is wrong to think that George and Ringo did not contribute. I was amazed sitting silently in the studio that, although John or Paul were usually clearly the driving force Ringo and George were not simply sleeping partners. They certainly would not just sit there and do as they were told. Ringo might make suggestions about the beat and George would chip in about a particular guitar riff. The whole business of recording was a partnership between the four of them and George Martin. And I reckon that George Harrison would be a major composer in his own right if he hadn’t landed himself in a group with two of the finest and most prolific song-writers the world has ever seen. I always used to wish George would assert himself more, but he did not tend to push himself forward.
John and Paul never did actually sit down and write together that much. Generally, one would start something off and then get the other one to chip in later when the idea was more fully formed. But when the pressure was on they could certainly churn it out. Once, EMI were really breathing down their necks for another track and were waving the recording contract at us. John just went round to Paul’s house in Cavendish Avenue and sat down with Paul to write a single in cold blood, but that was very unusual. The boys always wanted to give the fans value for money. They tried to produce albums with new songs on them, not just singles and their flipsides.
It was a tough job but someone had to do it. It was 1967 and I was searching the Aegean for a get-away-from-it-all island for the Beatles with the Beatles’ technical wizard Alexis Mardas. Magic Alex was one of the many extraordinary characters the Beatles attracted in their heyday. He was a particular friend of John’s and very nearly as peculiar. But he was good company and he was Greek. We had a great time doing this recce. Eventually, we found a beautiful island of about 80 acres with four superb beaches. So the Beatles could have one each if they wanted. And it even had four smaller islands circled around it.
The Greek island was priced to sell at £90,000 and it looked like just what the Beatles ordered. But this was at a time of currency restrictions so nothing was as easy as it seemed. The Beatles wanted to take a look for themselves and have a holiday into the bargain and I sprang into action to organise it. Alex went off to Greece to prepare his father’s house in Athens for us and to hire a large enough yacht to accommodate Paul and Jane, John, Cynthia and Julian, George and Patti, Ringo and Maureen, Big Mal Evans and his wife, Neil Aspinall and me.
On the way I had a huge row with John who was angry that my wife Lesley was not with us. It was as we changed planes in Paris that he realised she was missing from the party and he gave me a real earbashing. John might have had the reputation of the wild man of rock, but he could be surprisingly sensitive at times. He felt it was wrong that Lesley should be left at home and he ordered me to ring and arrange to have her come out and join us. But Lesley hates flying and she doesn’t like feeling like a hanger-on. There were always plenty of those. She knew I was working as well as enjoying the sunshine so there was no way I could persuade her to come. I quietly let the matter drop. We arrived to find Alex with a face full of taramasalata announcing that the motor yacht had been caught up and damaged in a fierce storm around Crete and would not be ready for a few days. So some Athens sight-seeing was swiftly arranged. Only someone kindly told the Greek tourist board of our movements and everywhere we went there were hordes of fans.
We all trooped into a music shop and John darted in and went straight past all the gleaming guitars to buy a bouzouki. The shopkeeper couldn’t believe that he had the world’s most famous group in his shop, or that all they wanted was this humble Greek instrument. Then Ringo went missing. Neil, Mal and I started to panic but he was in the shoe shop next door trying on a pair of sandals and not being recognised by a soul. Ringo had this relaxed way of going round that seemed to escape notice. His face is distinctive enough yet Ringo could wander casually around and people would not bother him at all. If the others tried it they would cause a riot.
The boat was eventually ready and it really was the last word in luxury. But that first night on board, the weather was stifling. I couldn’t sleep in my stuffy cabin so I thought I’d stretch out on deck where it would be cooler. I climbed the stairs in the darkness, anxious not to wake anyone up and suddenly fell on to something lumpy and human.
‘Who the hell’s that? Get off. What are you doing? Christ, it’s hot!’
I’d fallen right on top of Paul and Jane.
‘Sorry,’ I gulped. ‘It’s me, Alistair. I didn’t realise you were up here.’ I tried to get up without standing on anything too embarrassing but there was a little squeal from Jane when I steadied myself with a hand. She said, ‘Ouch, keep your hands to yourself, Al.’
As I floundered around, Paul’s voice said dryly, ‘You should have brought Lesley if you wanted a woman to grope in the dark, Al. Find a spare space and go to sleep.’
I realised then that far from being the first person to come up with the brilliant idea of sleeping out under the stars for a bit of cool axir, I was the last. But at least I did have the sense to get myself out of the early morning sun. I copied everyone else, who had hung their towels over the boat’s rails to protect them from the sun. Poor old Mal must have missed that trick. He didn’t put up his towel and slept on into the morning and got his face fried bright red like a large angry lobster.
It was one of the most enjoyable holidays I’ve ever had, even if it was supposed to be work. The Beatles and their womenfolk were the most fun people to be around I have ever known. The joking and banter never stopped. The four boys were like four brothers. They might tease and wind up each other something rotten, but they were as tight a group of people as I’ve ever seen. To be admitted, even briefly, into their company was to experience a constant good time. They laughed and messed around like kids on their first school trip.
We had a crew who looked after us like royalty. On the second day, the captain anchored in a beautiful little bay for us to go swimming. We plunged into the warm sea for a glorious session of splashing around. As we climbed back into the boat, a steward was present to hand us each a fluffy white towel. I found myself lying next to a quick-drying and extremely relaxed John Lennon. He said, ‘Do you know, I always remember when I was a kid and I used to go swimming at the baths, afterwards I always came home and had some porridge. I don’t know why, but ever since then I always think of porridge when I’m drying off after a swim!’
It was only about 15 minutes later when a beaming steward came out to where we were all sprawling in the sunshine. He was holding a large saucepan and following him was another steward with a tray of bowls and spoons, looking just as pleased with himself. You’ve guessed it – the stewards were bringing us some steaming hot porridge! Who knows where they had found porridge oats in the middle of the Aegean but they certainly came up with the genuine article. Everyone roared with laughter, especially John, who scoffed his bowlful with relish. Even in the 90° heat it tasted delicious. We even scraped out the pan.
Later, Alex was sent ashore in a motor boat to buy as many pads of paper and coloured pencils as he could find in the little harbour town. Paul decided we would have a doodling competition to find out who could design the most beautiful doodles! Everyone joined in and there was total silence for a while.
After a while, we handed our doodles round for the others to judge and analyse. There were all sorts of strange patterns and curves but I was identified as the odd one out for not drawing circles. My doodles were in straight lines. This became the subject of some detailed debate, and some of it was half-serious. I think they thought this free-range means of expression would open a key to the inner workings of each of our minds or something like that. I think they decided I drew straight lines because I was rather straight. Which I admit I am. I’d like to be a genius like John or a brilliant songwriter like Paul, but I’m not. John asked, ‘All of our corners are round and all of yours are sharp. They are all zig-zags and squares. Why do you doodle like that?’
‘God knows,’ I replied, feeling rather puzzled. John spent a long time carefully studying my pathetic doodles, trying to work out why I was the odd doodler out, but he couldn’t come up with anything better than, ‘It must have been something in your childhood, Al.’ I suppose he’s right. It didn’t seem that important. But after that, he would every now and then look at me slightly oddly and say creepily, ‘Ooooh, sharp corners,’ as if I was some sort of closet axe murderer.
The darker workings of the human mind did intrigue John. Months later, when we were back in England, he asked me to bring some papers over and when I got there what he really wanted was for me to join him and Julian in a drawing session. We laid on our stomachs on the floor of the kitchen and my corners were still sharp.
After months of hard work and very long hours, the Greek trip for me became a golden time and my happiest memory came late one moonlit night when John, George, Mal and I sat out on deck watching a glorious Greek moon. The captain was holding the yacht steadily on a course towards the beam of light that the moon threw on to the gently rippled surface of the sea. It seemed as if we were sailing up through the heavens right up to the moon, yet never seeming to come any closer. It was a wonderfully relaxing night as George picked out the notes of the Hare Krishna chorus on his ukulele and John, Mal and I quietly chanted the words. Beatlemania seemed to have finally been left far behind and we were totally at peace with the world as we sat there with legs crossed in the lotus position, staring together up at the shining column of marvellous moonbeams. We must have drifted on like that for a couple of hours until I clumsily broke the silence, ‘Just look at that moon.’
John Lennon couldn’t resist as he responded laconically, ‘Well spotted, Alistair.’
We all fell about laughing and from that day onwards it became my catchphrase. Whatever I pointed out to the boys, the chances were that the response would be a mickey-taking, ‘Well spotted, Alistair.’
When we finally arrived at the magical island that was for sale, the boys were instantly under its spell. It only had a fishing village with a few hundred occupants who were friendly and hospitable but mercifully not overly interested in the Beatles. The party was able to wander around drinking in the sublime tranquillity of the place. To visit that island was to fall in love with it and that is what the Beatles and their womenfolk proceeded to do. I was swiftly ordered to get on with the purchase without delay.
But when we got back to London, we discovered that while the Government would allow us to spend the £90,000 they would not sanction the extra expense necessary to build homes and the planned recording studio. We got a letter signed by James Callaghan detailing this great concession in view of the boys’ services to exports and the recording industry. I’m sure that Brian could have diverted money that was already held abroad. But Brian was rather straight about things like that and he firmly refused to break even the spirit of the law, let alone the letter. The Beatles battled on for weeks and I was endlessly occupied by the project. We got lawyers’ opinions, drafted appeals, and tried to recruit support for the purchase. Then Neil came to me with the news that the Beatles were fed up with all the aggro associated with the island and wanted to forget the whole thing.
Brian opened a private office devoted entirely to the Beatles in a place called Hille House, just off Albermarle Street, and I moved my base there. It was much more peaceful, particularly because the fans didn’t know about it initially. I worked there for quite a while with Wendy Hanson and our most frequent visitors were the Beatles themselves. My favourite guest was young Julian who would call in with John, or Cynthia. He was a boisterous little lad and he used to enjoy starting his visits by crashing me to the ground in a rugby tackle. We had a happy little routine whenever he arrived that I would get a buzz on the intercom from Wendy if Julian was approaching so I could go out into the corridor to be knocked to the ground. I always had to crash to the ground simulating great agony, which seemed to delight the little lad. If I happened to be inconveniently on the phone then Wendy had to keep him talking until I come out and fulfilled my dream role – punchbag to the Beatles.
The Beatles took up most of my time as far and away Brian’s biggest act, but I also helped out from time to time with his other great Liverpool chart-topper, Cilla Black. When I first met Cilla, she was about 21. Bobby Willis was her road manager in those days. They were going out together but this was long before they got married and sometimes it seemed it was a very stormy sort of romance. On three separate occasions, I had to rush over and act as peacemaker after they’d had another bust up. Each time when I arrived at the theatre, they were sitting on opposite sides of the room, firmly refusing to speak to each other. I’d have to talk to Cilla first to find out what had gone wrong from her point of view. Then I’d cross to Bobby and get his version of events. I’m not a therapist, but just by talking I seemed to be able to get Cilla and Bobby back together again. They were potty about each other even then, but they both had a great knack of letting rows escalate. Usually, I’d do a bit of chatting and then I would announce, ‘Right. We’re having lunch, now.’ And the three of us would sit down to a meal. And that was it. So I always used to claim that I had saved their marriage even before their wedding day. They just needed someone to bang their heads together and Brian decided that was another job for Mr Fixit.
Brian really worked his artists hard. Cilla was doing a summer season at Blackpool which was a big booking. She was second top to The Bachelors from Monday to Saturday and, on Sunday, Brian had booked two concerts in Great Yarmouth, backed by Sounds Incorporated, another of our groups.
I was in London when I received a tearful telephone call from Cilla. She was very upset and told me, ‘Bobby has gone to Liverpool.’ She was in floods of tears because they had had a huge row this time and he had told her it was all over and had driven back home. I discovered that this time the trouble was serious. Bobby was convinced Cilla had been flirting with Adam Faith, who was also appearing on the bill in Blackpool. Things became more fraught by the second.
Naturally, I was anxious to be as helpful as possible to one of Brian’s favoured stars, but definitely didn’t want to become involved in a potentially disastrous domestic dispute.
‘I don’t want to go to Great Yarmouth on my own with a driver I don’t know,’ said Cilla. My heart sank, because I knew her schedule meant being picked up at the stage door in Blackpool and chauffeured through the night to Yarmouth in one of our faithful old Austin Princess limos. I tried to placate Cilla but even as a young woman she was not someone to be easily pacified. She didn’t know that the chauffeur wasn’t a potential rapist and there was no way she was travelling across the country through the night with someone she did not know. Through the lines of our conversation, it dawned on me that Cilla was really saying that, under the circumstances, she was in serious need of some tender loving care from the management. In case I was in any doubt about the situation, she explained simply, ‘I’m not going unless you come up here and travel across to Yarmouth with me.’
I argued for a while but I was already looking at my watch. It was Saturday afternoon and I knew I could just get up to Blackpool in time for the end of the show. I agreed. I got the train and then a taxi and arrived at the ABC Cinema in Blackpool about ten minutes before the show ended. I was met by a very sad and subdued Cilla.
‘Has he really gone for good?’ I asked tactfully.
‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘And it’s about time.’
We climbed together into the large rear seat of the gleaming limo and Cilla perked up a little. She said, ‘I’ll tell you what, Al. I’d love some fish and chips.’
I agreed we’d stop at the next one and asked the driver to pull over. We stopped and there were crowds of people outside on a busy Saturday night in Blackpool. ‘Stay there,’ I advised Cilla, like the last of the big spenders, ‘I’ll get these.’ And I stepped out of the car and strode towards the fish and chip shop. I was just walking across to the front of the shop when this raucous Liverpool voice rang out after me, ‘Hey, Al. Will you get us a bottle of lemonade an’ all.’ So much for keeping the star’s identity under wraps.
We sat in the back of the car eating our chips and sharing the lemonade and it was one of those magic nights. Cilla was fresh and funny and had all the charm that has since turned her into one of Britain’s favourite stars. And although her marriage to Bobby Willis was to become one of the happiest in showbiz until his tragically early death, I have to say that that night she did not seem deeply disheartened by his sudden disappearance. Eventually she dozed off gently with her head on my shoulder and every time I saw her afterwards she would joke about the night we slept together from one side of the country to the other.
The following day in Great Yarmouth, I was prevented from taking Cilla to lunch at the Carlton Hotel by a pompous head waiter who insisted I wear a tie. I was irritated partly because I was wearing a very expensive turtle-neck sweater. He wanted me to wrap a tie around the neck of my sweater. Cilla said, ‘You’re joking. Don’t be so silly. He’s one of my managers.’ But the guy wouldn’t budge.
I never did find out if Cilla really had been flirting with Adam Faith. When I gently raised the subject, she gave me a wink and there was a distinct twinkle in her eye. But she and Bobby were back together again by the following week, and he even thanked me for taking such good care of her.
Cilla became really so fed up with Brian because she felt he was concentrating all his efforts on the Beatles. She accused him of tunnel vision. Gerry threatened the same thing but Cilla took it further and said she was tearing up the agreement. So Brian took drastic action to keep Cilla – he bought her a colour television set and took her and husband Bobby out to dinner.
If Brian had lived, then the whole Apple débâcle would never have happened the way it did. The plans to set up Apple began when Brian was still alive, but he wasn’t involved. He didn’t want to know about Apple. This was the boys’ own project. But if he had lived, he would have stepped in and explained to them that they were going crazy. With Apple they were rudderless. But they wouldn’t listen to Neil, or to me. If I objected to anything particularly crazy, they would just say to me, ‘Oh don’t be a drag, Al.’ In the next breath, they would bring me back in to do something for them; Brian would have given them the control they needed.