The Birds and the Beatles (written by Bill Corbett)

 The Birds and the Beatles

By Bill Corbett

The People

August 30, 1964

    I am a driver with 40 years of experience. I calculated the other day that I must have clocked up just over a million miles at the wheel. Well, when I took on the job of chauffeur to The Beatles nine months ago, I found I had to start again learning an entirely new technique of driving. 

    For instance, the art of moving off through a dense mob of 1000 half-crazed Beatles fans is something no driving school teaches. I learned the hard way the biggest menace in such a situation is not the fans thronging around the front of the car. A gentle nudge with the front bumper accompanied by a blast from the hooter usually gets them out of the way. It is the girls clinging onto the door handles who worry me stiff.  If I drive away too slowly, they will try to climb into the car or onto the roof. If I put my foot down and speed away, they will still cling on desperately and be dragged dangerously along the road. They seem to have no fear of injury or even death in the cause of Beatle worship, but I soon learned how to deal with them. 

    First, I ease the car gently along for a few yards, then suddenly, a quick jerk forward that doesn't shake them off, but then equally, suddenly break sharp, the fans are pitched forward, just enough to make them let go of the door handles, and that's enough for me to zoom ahead again, clear of them like that. Nobody gets hurt. That's just one of the tricks of the trade of being a Beatles driver.

    A few weeks ago, some girls outside John Lennon's flat in Kensington proudly showed me what dedicated fans they were. It made my stomach turn over. They had scared themselves for life by pricking out "I love Paul" and "I love John" on their arms with a pin. They had scratched deep into the skin, and the wounds were festering. It was horrible, but they were delighted with what they'd done. The Beatles themselves loathe this fanaticism among a minority of their fans.

    Having worked in such close harness with The Beatles for the last nine months, I've naturally had a pretty good eyeful of their girl friends. 

    The hottest romance of all has been the one between Paul and Jane Asher, the young actress. When the Beatles went to Paris earlier this year, the romance had already developed well beyond the "just good friend" stage. They just couldn't see enough of each other. So it didn't surprise me when Paul came to me after a week in France and asked if I could smuggle Jane into Paris. He was very concerned that the press should know nothing about it. I told Paul, "Tell Jane to book her flight and let me know when she's arriving, then leave it to me."

     I met Jane at the airport and took her to a little hotel I know in the Place St Michael on Left Bank. Paul visited her at the hotel regularly, but no one else even knew she was there, not even the other Beatles. How's that for security? 

    I know there have been lots of rumors about Paul being married to Jane Asher, but all I can say is that if it's true, then the other boys don't know. I can tell you one thing, and you can make of it what you like.  When Paul took Jane to see the new house he'd bought his parents just outside of Liverpool, he picked Jane up in his arms and carried her over the threshold. Perhaps it was a gag, but it wouldn't surprise me if they were married because they're certainly very much in love. 

    He takes her out regularly in the evenings. Sometimes, they go to dine at a theatrical club just off Leicester Square and sometimes to the late cinema show.

     John, the only married Beatle, counts himself very lucky to have such a charming and understanding life as Cynthia. She is retiring by nature, but I know she wishes she could share more of her husband's public life. It was management policy to keep her away from the fans and the press, but she told me once that she sometimes resented having to stay in the background.

     "At least I'm married to John," she said. "I kept myself behind the scenes for a year. But nobody seems to mind when other girls are seen with the Beatles."

     I know, however, Cynthia's great consolation is her 15-month-old son, Julian John, and it may be, and it's my guess, that it won't be long before baby Julian has a little brother or sister. 

    Cynthia is very happy to be living in the country now, in the £20,000 house John bought recently, not very far from my own home in Surbiton. But I'm sure she'll be a lot happier when John is able to leave the business, perhaps next year, and they can settle down to a normal family life. 

    John is the shrewdest of The Beatles, and his wit is the most devastating. He is carefree and happy-go-lucky. He is also an absolute nonconformist. A few days ago, I watched him get ready to go to a swank party that The Beatles manager Brian Epstein was giving.  For this formal occasion, John selected white trousers, a South Sea Island shirt, dark blue suede Cuban heeled boots, and a brown leather jerkin. 

    He had to press the trousers. So he brought an iron into the lounge, laid the trousers out on the carpet, and started to iron them. I've seen quite a few millionaires at home in my time, but I've never known one who pressed his trousers on the lounge carpet. John put the trousers on, surveyed himself in the mirror, and decided that the pressing job wasn't too good, so he picked up the hot iron and began pressing the trousers still on him! That's John Lennon. 

     "How do I look, Bill?" He said at length. I told him straight because I know that's what all the Beatles appreciate. "Bloody awful," I said. He took my advice and changed into a black suit. 

    George is perhaps the most outspoken Beatle. He calls a spade a spade if you know what I mean. He is the most difficult to get up in the morning and is the poorest eater I've seen. 

    George is a very fast mover in all respects, especially with girls. If he likes a girl very much, then she has to fall for him very hard; otherwise, he soon loses interest. Like Ringo, he goes for slim, "moddish" girls with long, straight hair. They're like ravers, girls who live it up, dig their music, and are with it.

     But George can be merciless to girls who act soft. I was with him once in a Paris nightclub. A beautiful girl of about 19 had attached herself to him and was delirious that he'd shown an interest in her, but when she started waving her arms about and rolling her head estastically to the music, George objected strongly. He told her to leave in no uncertain fashion. I didn't catch the first word he said, but the second one was definitely "off."

     His current date is Patti Boyd. He phoned her regularly from Australia and bought her a Mini Miner when he returned.

     George, too, has a fine house in Surrey. I recently spent £150 of his money on garden furniture for it. When it was delivered, George sat out in the garden surveying his estate, and I got the impression that he was thinking, "What do I do now?" I'm sure these boys are still far more at home in Liverpool than in their expensive new world.

     Ringo is the drollest of all. He doesn't say much, but when he does speak, it's usually something very much to the point, and he gets the most crazy ideas. One day, he said to me, "Buy me a Hammond organ, Bill." I thought it was joking and ignored it. But two days later, he had one in this flat. He can't play it but wanted to, so he got it.

     He also wanted a gold toothpick. I went everywhere for that without success, but he got one eventually. He also bought a modest little wristwatch. There are only three others like it in the world, and it cost him £300. A good investment for a boy who half the time doesn't even know what day it is.

     Ringo has a very kind nature and is obviously very fond of his Liverpool girlfriend, ex-hairdresser Maureen Cox. She was a constant visitor when he was in hospital with laryngitis. 

     Ringo is also the "live it up" king. I've often run him home to his flat after a long day working, perhaps from 8am to midnight, and he's turned to me and said, "Billy, How tired are you?" "Exhausted!" I said. "Good, then let's go to the nightclub." And off we'll go until three in the morning, even though he has to be up again at 7am.

     Protecting the Beatles from their fans is certainly a frightening job, but sometimes it's almost as bad trying to protect the Beatles from their own impulsiveness. There's a particular West End club the boys like where they can dance and listen to rhythm and blues music and drink whiskey and coke for half the night. I took John and Ringo there a few nights ago.

     Normally, I just dropped them at the club and picked them up later, but this time, they invited me in with them, and it was just as well I went. About four o'clock in the morning, Ringo told me to get the car. Both he and John were pretty merry. I collected the car, parked it outside the club, and went in for them. To my horror, I found them in the middle of a rowdy, jostling crowd of about six drunks, and I saw straight away that a punch-up was about to develop. I grabbed hold of Ringo and John and pulled them clear. The drunks started shouting at me and trying to grab the boys back, but I swore at them in my best army style and raised my fist threateningly, and they let go. 

    Meanwhile, John, who can always be relied upon to stir things up in these circumstances, was taunting the drunks and jeering at them. He was obviously reveling in the thought of mixing it with them. They're not a bit afraid of a fight, the Beatles and they are all pretty tough, but in their position, they just cannot afford to get involved. I held them back while the drunks shambled out of the club, arguing and fighting amongst themselves. It was all chaotic and confusing, the usual drunken brawl, and I wanted no part of it. Above all, I had to keep the Beatles out of it.

     When I finally got outside with Ringo and John, there was a furious fight going on across the road. John and Ringo would have been in the middle of it if I hadn't been there, but I got them into the car and drove off smartly.

    It's all part of the night's work when you're a chauffeur for The Beatles. For that part of my duties from a six-foot, three-inch frame, and experience in the professional boxing ring came in useful.

     The thing that impresses me most of all about the Beatles is their tremendous loyalty to each other. They seem to have a secret pact that whatever happens, the group, The Beatles, comes first, and the individuals John, Paul, Ringo, and George come last. I've never seen one Beatle quarrel with another; even now, when they are tending more to lead their own separate lives, there's a strong bond keeping them together. 

    They seem to have no real friends apart from each other and the girls in their lives. I suppose that is because of the strange world in which they live, a world of locked doors and police escorts, a world in which fans continually eavesdrop, spy, and pester, a world full of letters they have no time to read, hundreds of gifts they cannot use. They'd give half their fortunes to be able to walk to open their front door and walk down the street unmolested and be able to go and have a quiet drink at a local pub.