Death Threat to the Beatles (By Bill Corbett)

 Death Threat to the Beatles

Written by Bill Corbett

The People

September 6, 1964

    People often ask me, "How long do you think the Beatles will last?" I usually grin and say, "Forever." And I mean it.

     There's no doubt that musically, these boys have tremendous reserves of talent that can still be exploited. For instance, I wouldn't be a bit surprised to see John and Paul writing hit musical shows a few years from now. And I dare say they can stay at the pace physically, too, when you consider their grueling tour of America, which is to be followed by a strength-sapping sound of one night stands back in England.

     Realize what tremendous demands are being made on the boys, but they seem to revel in it, inadequate sleep, irregular meals, long hours of hard work, and a marathon traveling schedule. They take them all in their stride. On top of this, though, is the almost complete lack of private life and the constant battle with hordes of fans. I think that could, in the end, wear them down more than anything.

     All the same, the boys are full of new ideas. They have even discussed opening a chain of tailoring shops with the help of their tailor, Dougie Millings. But I've got a hunch they'll keep going as a group for a long time despite the rigors of their present life.

     By the way, I'm told I was wrong in  suggesting last week that John was contemplating quitting to settle down to domestic life with his wife, Cynthia.

     High-pressure tours can be tough on Ringo more than the others. Last May at the photograph studio in Barnes, where the boys were posing for pictures as city gents complete with bowlers and umbrellas, Ringo felt ill.

     I found him in the dressing room. At first, I thought he was kidding. You never know with these four, but I soon saw that he really felt sick. A girl at the studio knew a local doctor. She telephoned him, and I rushed Ringo round to his surgery in the upper Richmond Road. The doctor diagnosed tonsillitis and laryngitis. He was going to give Ringo penicillin and asked him if he'd had it before. Ringo said, "Yes."

     I took him home to bed and telephoned University College Hospital to book him a private room. I visited him there nearly every day. For the first few days, he looked pretty listless and depressed, but he brightened up later and started making a model sailboat. After eight days, he was discharged, but he still looked weak and pale.

     Ringo is tremendously game and has a great spirit. The first day out of hospital, I drove him to Richmond Park so that he could get a bit of fresh air. I stopped the car in the park and told him to get out and stretch his legs, and get some clean air into his lungs. But he was looking at me as if I was mad and just sat in the car. Then, after a few minutes, he said, "Come on, Bill, get me out of here. I can't stand any more of this bloody grass."

     I took him back to the doctor, where we stayed for dinner, and then at about 10:15pm, we headed for home. It looked like being an early night for once, and he could certainly have done with it, but not on your life. He told me to stop at a friend's flat on the way home, and we finally got away from there at midnight after a dozen cigarettes and several whiskey and Cokes. 

    Then, if you please, Ringo tried to get me to take him to his favorite nightclub, to which I said, "Not on your life!" I told him, "You're going home to bed." Ringo has the same "you only live once" philosophy as the rest of the group, but he ought to take it easy and take better care of himself.

    One of the biggest worries about being chauffeur to The Beatles (and believe me, there are plenty) is the frightening responsibility of having 4 million pounds worth of human merchandise aboard the car. Keeping the fans at bay is bad enough, as I told you, but what if you should have an accident or be attacked by criminals, cranks, or kidnappers? That's always a possibility when you're dealing with famous and commercially valuable passengers such as John, Ringo, George, and Paul.

     Only recently, we've read about those bomb threats against the boys in America. Everywhere they go, the Beatles are plagued by cranks and lunatics, publicity seekers, and a few spiteful types jealous of their success. Of course, most outsiders hearing about the activities of people like that treat their threats as something of a joke, but it's not so funny when you're on the receiving end.

     I can tell you that the boys themselves take this sort of thing very seriously. They know full well how valuable and how vulnerable they are and what a temptation they could be to crooks and kidnappers. They also know that for every 1000 people who are gratified by their success, there are one or two who hate them bitterly for it.

     One twisted minded fanatic cropped up when I was with the Beatles over in France last winter. He sent a note to the boys' dressing room saying he intended to kill John Lennon when he appeared on the stage that night. The note, badly printed in English, was short and to the point, a picture of John torn from a newspaper was stuck on the paper, and underneath was written, "I'm going to shoot you at nine tonight." The boys were already pretty nervous. This concert at Versailles was their first in France, and they were worried about the impression they would make. France is probably the least Beatle-crazy of all the Western European countries. 

    This note made matters worse. They joked about it, of course, but you could see that underneath, they were thinking, "Suppose it isn't a gag."  When John went on stage that night, he was pretty jittery, and when nine o'clock came, you could feel the tension building up among the boys. It must have been terrifying for John, peering anxiously around the audience, because without his glasses, his sight is none too good. Of course, there were plenty of police around, but if our maniac had really made up his mind to shoot, there didn't seem much the police could do about it. Nine o'clock came and went without incident, except for a young lad jumping up on the stage to dance at the instigation of the photographers. The Beatles emerged unscathed, happily, but I don't think I've ever seen them look more relieved than when they got off that stage and back into their dressing room. It may have been a false alarm, but these incidents all add to the strain of being a Beatle and a Beatles chauffeur.

     All the Beatles smoke pretty heavily. I know because it was part of my unofficial duties to buy their fags for them. They wouldn't dare show their faces in a shop themselves. My daily order for filtered tips used to be between 200 -250.

     They have plenty of money to spend, of course, and they love spending it, but as their errand boy, I had plenty of headaches. I remember one occasion when Paul wanted to buy a shirt. I went to a man's outfitters in Piccadilly, got a selection of shirts and took them round to Paul. The rest of the Beatles were there. They saw the shirts and promptly started ordering some for themselves. I went backward and forwards between the store and the flat about seven times in the next couple of days, and by the time it was all added up, they spent more than £400.

     Not that that makes much of a dent in a Beatles bank balance. In one week, each of them may earn anything up to £7000, even after the deductions of Brian Epstein's 25% and the wages and expenses of road managers Neil Aspinall and Malcolm Evans. In addition, John and Paul get royalties from the songs they've written. They each received a check recently for around £2400, and this represented royalties for just the United Kingdom. Then, of course, the Beatles get a 1% royalty from the sales of all products bearing their name. It was calculated that Beatles merchandise in America was likely to chalk up £50,000,000 in sales this year, so that should provide a little extra pocket money for the Beatles.

      They've made enough money now to be able to quit when they like. But if I know my Beatles, they want to keep going for a long, long time. John and Paul will go on writing, of course, but I think the others, when at last, the time does come to quit, will invest their money and take it easy for the rest of their lives.

     The Beatles all feel that if and when they do start to slide, it will be a very steep drop indeed, and suddenly, all the 1000s of people who want to know them now would become unaccountable, and accountability would lose interest. That's the way it is in show business. The Beatles aren't fools. George once said to me, "When we started, nobody wanted to know us. It was tough trying to get a break, but now everybody wants to know us, not because we're what we are, but because we're successful."  The Beatles have contempt for some of their so-called show business friends. They know that when certain stars just drop in to see them, it's not friendship but publicity. Having their photographs taken with the Beatles might help to salvage a tottering career.

     Of course, the Beatles love their work. No group could have won such success without dedicating themselves wholeheartedly to their music. But there are signs now that they want to have a solid domestic background. When I first started driving for The Beatles, I got the impression that the other three were a bit resentful of the fact that John was married. You see no sign of this now. Paul, George and Ringo all have their steady girlfriends and seem to be heading towards  matrimony and family life.

     If you could be in the car with me, it would surprise you to hear some of the remarks the boys make when we're traveling together. How much they'd like to go to this place or that on their own and unmolested. They may be sophisticated in some ways, but in other ways, they're just like schoolboys. Whenever I used to return from a shopping expedition for them, they'd cluster around me and see what I bought. They'd gleefully examine the goods. And it used to make me feel like Santa Claus. 

    When Ringo returned from his holiday in Tahiti, I felt sure he would have collected some lavishly expensive souvenirs from his visit. He could have bought all the stock of all the island gift shops if he had wanted to. But what did he return with? Seashells. Hundreds of them, in all colors, shapes and sizes. He was as happy as a baby with a new rattle.

     One thing I've always admired about the Beatles is that they have no time for pomposity, and they're utterly impatient of authority. Whenever they've been to a stuffy, formal occasion, they've always insisted on taking me with them, despite the snorts of disapproval from society matrons and snooty debs.

     For The Beatles know perfectly well that they themselves would have attracted the same sort of snort a couple of years ago. I remember George, on one occasion, throwing the whole staff of one highly select and expensive establishment into turmoil by ignoring the menu, which was about as big as this page, and asking for jam butties. He did it deliberately because he was so fed up with what he described as "a load of stuck up artificial nits."

     The Beatles can smell phonies and bandwagon jumpers a mile away. I take my hat off to these four lads from Liverpool. It's been wonderful working with them. When my employers, a car hire firm, allotted me to do the job of driving for them nine months ago, I never, for a moment, realized what I was in for. It's certainly been a hard day's nightmare, but I wouldn't have missed it for the world.

My Crazy Life With the Beatles (By Bill Corbett)

 My Crazy Life with the Beatles

Written by Bill Corbett

The People

August 23, 1964

    When I stood on the tarmac at London Airport last week listening to the screams of Beatles fans and watching the Boeing 707 climbing into the sky, it was more than John, Paul, Ringo, and George who were flying away. It was part of my life.

     A few hours before driving the boys to the airport for their flight to America, I made up my mind that this was to be my last job for them. Don't misunderstand me; they are four wonderful young lads, great-hearted guys.

     There are certain things that human flesh and blood and the nervous system can't stand forever, and being the official, permanent, full-time, 24-hours-a-day chauffeur to The Beatles is one of them. That's why I have decided to quit while my body is still in one piece, but my mind is still sound (although slightly shattered).

     In many ways, being chauffeur to The Beatles is one of the most fascinating jobs in the world, but it's also one of the toughest for me.  It's been nine months of high tension, sleepless nights, calamities, crises, and catastrophes, and a lot of crazy fun, too.

     Four million quids worth of crazy, unpredictable Liverpudlians is pretty nerve-wracking cargo, you must admit, especially when besieged by a mob of fiendish screaming fans. I think I'll take up driving loads of unexploded bombs to give my nerves a rest!

     I've been driving for 40 years now, and in that time, I've had pretty famous people sitting behind me, Tony Curtis, Cary Grant, Yul Brynner, Cliff Richard, Peter Sellers, and many more. But nothing in all my experience compares remotely with the job of ferrying The Beatles across the country.

     And the job doesn't just end at driving. I had to be their bodyguard, nurse, valet, errand boy, cook, waiter, amorous advisor, keeper of secrets, and even a calendar, for sometimes Misters Lennon, McCartney, Starr, and Harrison are so hard-pressed they don't even know what day it is.

     I gave George an early morning telephone call at 12 noon the other day, and he said sleepily, "Hello, Bill. What day is it ?" 

    I've done just about everything for the Beatles except for singing and playing their guitars. They do that pretty well themselves.  But when it comes to ordinary, everyday chores, The Beatles are about as useful as a three-legged bicycle. I've cooked for them, got them up in the morning and to bed at night, brought them clothes, groceries and furniture. 

    They appreciate my efforts. I know for often heard them refer to me as that "big, soft, headed cockney nit."  Sometimes, I've worked an 18-hour day and a 120-hour week. There have been times when I've had to snatch an hour's sleep in the back of the Austin Princess to keep myself from falling asleep at the wheel on the next trip.

     Protecting the Beatles from their fans has been the most terrifying part of my job. I'm six foot three, weigh 17 stone, and used to be a professional boxer, so I'm better equipped than most to take care of the world's most valuable show business property.  But now I think I'd rather go 10 rounds with Sonny Liston and Cassius Clay simultaneously than face another horrifying horde of  frenzied stop at nothing teenage fanatics.

     Despite all the publicity there has been about Beatlemania, I'm sure most people just don't realize how deeply this hysteria has eaten to the souls of the teenage lunatic fringe. People say it's falling off now, dying down. Don't you believe it! 

     A few weeks ago, I was waiting in a quiet mews near the Belgravia flat of Ringo and George when the back door of the car was wrenched open, and a girl leaped in. Her eyes were wide, her hair was disheveled, and her clothes looked as though they'd been slept in, as they probably had. It's quite common for these girls to spend night after night outside one of the Beatles flats. She was pretty in a beatnik kind of way. Her eyes were heavy with black makeup. Her face was pale. She wore a hipster skirt, a tight black sweater, diamond pattern black nylons, and stiletto shoes. She withered on the back seat and then started taking off her clothes. She was 14. I was out of the driving seat and into the back of the car just as she was pulling the sweater over her head, I yanked it back down, hooked an arm around her waist, and hauled her bodily from the car. She didn't scream or yell. She went limp and kept muttering, "I love them. I'm going to wait for them. Leave me alone. I love them." 

     In nine months, I've become pretty familiar with the symptoms of chronic Beatlemania. This was a pathetically advanced case, but not all that uncommon. There are many kids like this so desperately obsessed that they're ready to degrade and demean themselves and the same cause of fan worship. I just can't understand how parents can allow their kids to get into this wretched state. I watched this kid walk back dejectedly to join the little group outside the flat and wondered what would become of her. 

    I learned a few days later that she was taken before a juvenile court as being in need of care and protection. When she was picked up, she hadn't eaten for three days. Maybe they'll save that one from her own and her parents' folly. But what about all the other pathetic little creatures? 

    What about the "Suicide Squad"? The kids, whose one aim in life seemed to be  run over by the Beatle's car. Fantastic, of course, it is, but it's true, and this crazy death wish was responsible for the most frightening ordeal in my 40 years of driving.

     It happened when the boys were filming at the London Scala Theater. All day long, girls have been trying to break into the theater. Some had even climbed up onto the roof. It was pouring with rain, and they were soaked to the skin, but it didn't dampen their frantic enthusiasm. One girl in particular, a little bedraggled, bespeckled mouse, had been a perfect menace to the police all day. She was a regular Houdini, and she found more ways into that theater than anyone knew existed. 

    After the day's filming, I pulled the car right up to the stage door, ready for the Beatles to come out. As the police struggled to hold back the shrieking, surging crowd, the boys emerged, led by their road manager, Neil Aspinall.  They piled quickly into the car and slammed the door. I drove out pretty fast. You have to to prevent the kids from swarming around and trying to climb aboard. I must have been doing about 25 miles per hour when she stepped off the curb right in front of me. It was the same little girl in glasses who had been thrown out of the theater at least five times. She stood in the road, her eyes shut tight, her fingers in her ears waiting for death, the most glorious death her warped little mind could conceive.  By a snap reflex action. I braked, swung the wheel over, and held my breath as the big, lurching car passed within inches of her frail body. In the rear mirror, I saw her still standing there, waiting for the impact. Escapes don't come any narrower than that, and you can't imagine the outcry there would have been if the car had struck her. I rarely seen any of the Beatles show any fear, but even they were scared on that occasion.

    The half-erased extremist element among the fan girls between 13 and 15 is mostly the most dangerous of all. Whenever I am frustrated, their plans and my job depends on doing just that. To use the most foul language, I have been scratched, bitten, and kicked by these schoolgirl furies and some pretty horrible experiences.

     The all-night campers are the worst I've seen. Green Street Mayfair, where George and Ringo used to live, looked like a corporation rubbish tip. After 60 or 70 kids have camped there for several nights on the run, the road was littered with orange peels, sweet wrappers, half eaten sandwiches, Coke bottles and the tattered remnants of newspapers and pop magazines. 

    The sickening fan worship is bad enough in teenagers, but it's even worse among middle-aged women who ought to know better. Some of these women write the most abject letters of adulation to The Beatles. Some time ago, one of the Beatles received a letter from a mother of two children, which was quite nauseating. It said that since seeing him on the stage, she had lost all interest in her husband and slept apart from him. She couldn't sleep for thinking about this particular Beatle. It ended, "my daughters love you, and so do I. Loving kisses."

     But what convinced me most of all about the insane depths of which Beatle mania has sunk were a couple of policewomen outside of the theater where the Beatles were appearing last winter. I heard them saying in under tones, "I must touch Paul." "I'm going to get one of Ringo's buttons."  And they deliberately let the crowd push them forward so they themselves could be nearer to the Beatles, whom they were protecting. 

    The Beatles were in the middle of a grueling tour of one night stands when I took on the job last winter, and by the end of the first week, I was ready for the men in the white coats to collect me and leave me gently away. 

    Come with me on a typical day during one of these tours. You wake up in a New Castle Hotel at 8am, having got to bed around 3am, and realize you've drastically overslept. You know, you have to get John, Ringo, Paul, and George safely in the back of your car by 12 noon, and that this process usually takes about five hours, so you grab a shower and quick breakfast (probably simultaneously) and with road manager Neil Aspinall, you start on the rounds of the four Beatles.

    A gentle tap on the bedroom door, no response. Open the door, go in, and call, "Ringo, time to get up." No response. You shout. Nothing. You roar. This time, you get a response. A Cuban-heeled boot hits the door just an inch above your head. You decide to come back later.

     Much the same situation in the other rooms. The Beatles don't like getting up in the morning. One member of the NEMS organization that manages the Beatles once a word out of place to George who just got out of bed and had a glass of orange juice thrown over him.

     Eventually, after a few more boots, a prize-winning selection of colorful Liverpool expressions, and a small avalanche of cornflakes, marmalade buddies, and tea. You are more or less astonished to find all four Beatles sitting in the car at about 12:30pm.

     You have to be at Lewisham by 6pm  "Do you know the way Bill" 

     "Of course, he knows the way. We went to London once before, didn't you Bill?"

     "Yeah, but he was only a lad then, not the big, soft, headed, old knit he is today."

     "Leave Billy alone. He can't help being half witted."

     You set off knowing that once you got through the 250 kids who are swarming around the car, all you have to do is deliver the Beatles safely to the theater and Lewisham. Nothing to it, really, provided you are a combination of Sterling Moss, James Bond, and Superman.

     John and Paul start working out a new number on the way, and Ringo joins in drumming with his fingers on the partition.  It all sounds a bit disjointed, but by the end of the run, Paul and John will probably have hummed themselves another £10,000.

     In between their cryptic comments on the scenic beauty.

     "Look at that one."

     "Hey, slow down, Bill."

       "You're joking. She's too young for you. She's only about 35."

     "There's another one. Look!"

    "What? Me old Granny's better looking than that."

     By the time we get to the M1, the boys are beginning to get just a little tired of the journey. 

    "Hey, Bill, you're not going to let him get away with that, Are you?"  As a mark 10 jag goes by.

     "Yeah. Gonna move on, Billy!"

    "If Bill goes more than 25 miles an hour, his hands start shaking."

     "Come on, Bill, get the needle off the clock."

     I get this all the time. They kept urging me to go faster, so I decided to show them. I gun the throttle and take her well into the 80s. Now, my foot is flat on the boards, and I keep it firmly there. It's raining, and the conditions are not too good, but I'll show them. Show them but they don't turn a hair.

     "Come on, Bill. Take the handbrake off."

     At Lewisham, we drive straight into the police station yard, where the boys are to be transferred to a police van to take them into the theater. In the theater dressing room, the boys settle down, knowing they are prisoners for the rest of the evening. They share the small room with their stage suits, a few 100 fan letters, dozens of presents, soft toys, packets of throat sweets, and jelly babies.  A large amount of autograph books and a crate of Cokes.

     Meals, messages, and certain privileged shy fans are sent in. I kick around backstage for a while, and they go off to snatch a bite of food. I'm back in time for the getaway operation. The boys leave the theater as though it's on fire. They're into my car and away before the fans can muster.

     Back to their flats in London, then on to a nightclub in the West End. They'll be there until four. I'm standing by, still on duty. When they're ready, I have to run them home. It's going to be even more of a struggle to get them up in the morning to go to Southampton. I'll be sleeping in the car at the garage tonight. That's the hard days, day you can expect on tour with The Beatles.

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.