I hit Paul on the head

This is another one of those Teen Datebook magazine articles about "Girls that got to meet the boys." This one is from the January 1967 issue (which I found on ebay listed really badly for just 5 dollars!). It was written by Georgina King who was 17 at the time. She was from Dufur, Oregon.

At approximately four pm, I arrived at the Seattle Center via the monorail, just as the Beatles were swinging into the last numbers of the afternoon matinee performance. In no time at all, thousands of girls were flooding the area, looking frantically for some sign of the fabulous foursome. However, the Beatles were not leaving at all, but were downstairs dressing for a six o'clock press conference, quite unconcerned about all the adoration being displayed on their behalf. I was supposed to be admitted to the press conference at six - this being the case, I decided to hang around the stage door.

However, by the time six o'clock came, I was not alone. About 75 camera-laden reporters had dropped by to keep the stage door company. Most of the crowd was made up of teenagers who had been guaranteed entry months in advance. All were busily chatting and laughing among themselves when a man in a white coat came outside and told us that The Beatles request, on half of us, and those under 18 would have to disperse. I don't think any of us could really believe it! No one made any move to protest this gross wrong, because we were too shocked to believe it. I left the stage door feeling a little chilly, and also feeling waves of doubt hitting me. Were the Beatles still the ones I had loved before?

AT 7:15, I met my cousins at the west entrance, and we went into the Coliseum. As we looked for our seats, I realized with a good deal of dismay that our seats were going to be so far away that I would be lucky if I even HEARD the boys, must less saw them. I walked up to the second level, and looked anxiously through this entrance and that one, until I found myself right in the seats behind the bandstand. An usher walked up to me and asked me what I Was doing there. I proceeded to spin a terribly convincing yarn about my ticket being blurred, and that I had no idea where my seat was. Just at that moment another of those men in the white coats entered the conversation, and told the usher I could sit anywhere I pleased as long as n one else was sitting there. I found myself a nice place in the second balcony, and watched the show until about halfway through Bobby Hebb's act.

"You'll have to move," said the usher. He directed me through this aisle and that one, and finally seated me about 40 feet closer to the bandstand. This time my seat lasted until about halfway through the Cyrkle's act. The hard-working usher was getting very tired of trying to find me a seat, so he put me where NO ONE could take my seat. I was put into the elite section amongst employees' children and the children of city officials. From this seat, I could easily converse with performers on the bandstand. And by leaning over the railings a few inches, I could easily see performers in the backstage area.

At long last, the Ronettes finished their act. All of the kids in my section rose from their seats, to get a better look at what was coming off backstage. I nearly fell from my bracing when I saw Ringo set his bass drum out in the hall for the program. Then all at once, The Beatles ran up to the stage, only three feet away from me! Paul turned to his amplifier to adjust the controls.

With my heart pounding in my ears, I reached into my purse, and grabbed the heaviest object I could find. I drew back my arm, and flung my powder case at Paul, hoping it would land on the floor near him and catch his attention. I was totally unprepared for what it did do. The heavy compact flew through the air and hit Paul squarely on the side of his head! He jumped back, put his hand to his temple, and then kicked angrily at the compact on the floor. It flew across the stage and hit John's leg. Paul turned to look in the direction from whence the blow had rained and found himself looking squarely into my face!

His eyes became very wide, then very narrow, and a surprised smile began to play around his lips. "Oh, you!" he shouted. Then he began to prance around the amplifier fiddling with the knobs, all the time looking at me and shouting, "It HAD to be you!" Paul ran to the mike and poked George in the ribs. Paul mouthed something to George and then pointed at me quite openly.

They began their first song. The show progressed. At the end of each number, Paul and George would come and chat with the kids in our section. Each time, Paul would turn to me and start to say something but each time, John would jerk him back, and they would start another song. During the songs, I carried on a lively argument with a Coliseum official about how unfair it had been to refuse me entrance into the press conference.

"Rock and Roll Music" came to a halt. Paul skipped over to our side and threw a campaign button from his lapel at our section. I caught it in my hands, but it slipped from my grasp and some vulgar boy snatched it and wouldn't give it back. I looked down at Paul who looked at John, who would not look at anyone. Paul shrugged his shoulders, and went to sing "Yesterday."

That is one song that has the power to make me either very happy or very sad. Up until that moment, I had not screamed for cried at all, but the sight of Paul singing that song tore my feelings all to pieces. I believe I cried harder then, than I have ever cried in my life. At the end of the number, I found myself leaning clear over the railings with my arms outstretched to reach the stage. Paul looked at me, and then began shaking his head vigorously. But still, he was putting his own hands out as if to catch me. I stretched my fingertips as far as I could and my fingertips were only inches from his. All of a sudden he laughed with malicious glee, and dropped his hands to his sides.

Then Paul dripped to his knees, and began to converse with that Coliseum official on the floor below. He got back up and went to the mike to announce "I Wanna be Your Man."

I slipped a ring off my finger and made ready to toss it. A guard below looked up at me and mouthed a silent "no." I put the ring halfway back on my finger, and he turned away. Just then, a girl hurled an entire camera (a very large one I might add) onto the stage, and it landed with a tremendous crash near Ringo. I tossed my ring at Paul and it landed in a heap of jelly babies. Not more than two minutes later, a guard dragged the camera thrower away, and not more than three minutes later, a guard AND an usher clamped their hands on me. Oh no, I thought, I am really in for it. And all I did was throw a wee little ring.

"We've been watching you," said one.

"Why? What did I do?" said I.

"Now you're going to see what happens to little girls who complain about not getting into press conferences," he replied.

All at once, I realized that I was not going to a paddy wagon, but that I Was going backstage. They sat me in a cozy little exit room, and told me to be nice. Without five minutes, several other bewildered kids were hauled in. Needless to say, I was getting nervous. The door flew open wide, once more.

Mr. Paul McCartney literally blew in, and stood stock still! Then he ran over to me, fell on his knees, and began shouting, "Please don't hit me!" All of a sudden, he stopped, got up and sat down.

John came in, and right then I knew that he was going to be no different than he was last year. He had the same, "I'm lots better than you are" look again, and everyone got a little less sure of themselves. He walked over to the exit door and waited for somebody to let him out. George, dropped on a sofa for a moment and then walk to talk to another fan, while he examined his face in a nearby mirror, George, unlike the other three did not have on boots, but wore black leather loafers.

I couldn't see Ringo, so I extended my hand to Paul, who was still sitting quietly beside me. He looked at me as though my face was on backwards, but he picked it up and held it tightly. "How's things?" he said.

"Fine, do you remember me? I met you last year and wrote about it in Datebook."

"Umhum. Oh, you're the one who didn't like John, and you wrote nice things about me, and your editor is a nice guy."

"Do you fellows ever read Datebook, or do the editors just say you do?"

"We have read every issue for two years. I read your story, and I think John framed it or something. He thought it was really a giggle. He says he thinks you are really a great comedy writer. We were going to write you a poison pen letter, but I liked what you said about me."

"What did I say?"

"Well, you said I was like the boy next door. I'll bet you have wonderful boys in your neighborhood then."

"Yes. How about a kiss?" I asked brazenly.

He frowned and then said "Shame on you!" He gave my hand a squeeze, kissed my cheek quickly and then got up and ran to the exit, where the other three were assembled.

About ten minutes later, a laundry truck rolled around to the exit. The Beatles climbed into the back of it, and were whisked off to rendezvous with their limousine, miles out of Seattle, and miles from their fans.