Dear John, I remember when we first met in Walton, at the Village Fate - it was a beautiful summer day, and I walked in there, and you were on the stage, and you were singing “Come Go With Me” by the Del Vikings. But you didn’t know the words, so you made them up. “Come go with me to the penitentiary,” it’s not in the lyrics.
I remember writing our first songs together. We used to go to my house, my dad’s house, and we used to smoke Taifu tea with this pipe my dad kept in a drawer. It didn’t do much for us, but it got us on the road. We wanted to be famous. I remember the visits to your mum’s house, Julia - she was a very handsome woman, very beautiful woman - she had long red hair, and she played a ukelele. I’d never seen a woman who could do that.
I remember having to tell you the guitar chords, ‘cause you used to play the ukelele chords.
And then on your 21st birthday, you got 100 pounds off of one of your rich relatives up in Edinburough, so we decided we’d go to Spain. So we hitchhiked out of Liverpool, and we got as far as Paris. We decided to stop there for a week, and eventually got our hair cut by a fellow called Jurgen. And that ended up being the Beatle haircut.
I remember introducing you to my mate, George, my schoolmate, and him getting into the group by playing “Raunchy” on the top deck of the bus. You were impressed.
And when we met Ringo, who had been working the whole season at Butlin’s Holiday Camp, he was a seasoned professional.
That’s what I call eyefucking.