Post by chicoharris on Oct 9, 2010 19:41:05 GMT 1
I wrote this and it was published for the occasion of John's birthday in 1994. I re-publish it each year somewhere on his birthday.
Had I known, had I believed him…
Oxford Town #69 October 4, 1994
I WAS SITTING in a local pub called The Grapes reading a local newspaper called The Liverpool Echo when a local drunk slumped onto the bench beside me and said that with my being a bloody American, I should buy him a bloody double vodka. The Southern gentleman in me decrees that drunks who interrupt one while reading should not be vilely cursed until they do it a second time. In this town, it might remind one of the Beatles song “Not A Second Time.”
I’m fascinated by the British and was curious exactly why, if I was indeed a bloody American, I should buy him, this sixty-something drunk in a rumpled suit and a bad silver hairpiece, a bloody double vodka. I explained to him it was not possible for me to buy him the aforementioned drink; I was living in England on $30 a month, sleeping in the doorway of a Catholic church a few blocks away and was only able to have a Guinness because it seemed so inexpensive after being in the London pubs.
He was in my face instantly, eyes wild, hair frizzed, bellowing: “Well, if you can’t buy me a bloody drink, wot the ‘ell are you doing in Liverpool, then?!!?”
I very much prefer the northern England accent to the southern. The Merseyside tongue is full, and rich; almost a brogue. I don’t care for it, though, bellowed and spit in my ear. Especially when “In My Life” by The Beatles is coming out of the jukebox.
I explained to him, shortly, that I was in town simply because of my love for the Beatles, to check out where they were from, just as I had seen folks do for Elvis in Tupelo and Faulkner in Oxford. He fell silent. About an hour before, another Liverpudlian had told me a story about how Ringo Starr had bought Bill Clinton a beer in that very pub. The future president, the story went, had assisted when the drummer was threatened by some local toughs, or ‘teddy boys,’ as they were once called, in their parts. One far-fetched story, or lie, as they’re called in our parts, was enough. If he also had one, I hoped the drunk would turn away as I turned back to my Echo. Wasn’t to be. He was in my face again, screaming, “John was a prince!”
I noticed I was the only person in The Grapes who thought this irregular; all the other pub patrons ignored this screaming man.
“Did you know John Lennon?” I asked.
“Know him! Of course I did! I loved him, I did! He was the best! The best of the lot!”
For some reason, even though I was sitting in a Liverpool Pub on Mathew Street, a pub famous as a Beatle hang-out and just a couple of doors from The Cavern Club, which The Beatles made world famous, I didn’t believe him at all. He wanted a bloody double vodka. “I have to be going,” I told him. “I’m going to Quarrybank tomorrow.”
“His school! You’re going to see where John did his schoolin’! They won’t let you in. Not without this.” he began scribbling on a paper napkin. I again told him I had no money for a drink.
“Just give it to the bloody headmaster and be gone with you!” He was screaming again.
At Quarrybank the next day, the headmaster smiled when I gave him the napkin --which held a scrawl I couldn’t read-- and proceeded to give me a personal tour of John’s old stomping grounds, like the first stage he played guitar on and the office where he received his many beatings. The crown jewel of this tour was the opening of a dusty old ledger to show me where ten-year-old John Winston Lennon signed his name in 1950.
That night I was back in The Grapes when I met a fellow who told me he could introduce me to Allan Williams, who would be coming in shortly. Allan Williams! He was the first manager of The Beatles, and is credited with with making them a real band and being the guiding force in making band breakups temporary.
Eventually, Allan Williams did come in. You can guess who it was. He didn’t remember me from the night before, but he did tell some great Beatle stories.
John Lennon would have been 54 Wednesday.
Had I known, had I believed him…
Oxford Town #69 October 4, 1994
I WAS SITTING in a local pub called The Grapes reading a local newspaper called The Liverpool Echo when a local drunk slumped onto the bench beside me and said that with my being a bloody American, I should buy him a bloody double vodka. The Southern gentleman in me decrees that drunks who interrupt one while reading should not be vilely cursed until they do it a second time. In this town, it might remind one of the Beatles song “Not A Second Time.”
I’m fascinated by the British and was curious exactly why, if I was indeed a bloody American, I should buy him, this sixty-something drunk in a rumpled suit and a bad silver hairpiece, a bloody double vodka. I explained to him it was not possible for me to buy him the aforementioned drink; I was living in England on $30 a month, sleeping in the doorway of a Catholic church a few blocks away and was only able to have a Guinness because it seemed so inexpensive after being in the London pubs.
He was in my face instantly, eyes wild, hair frizzed, bellowing: “Well, if you can’t buy me a bloody drink, wot the ‘ell are you doing in Liverpool, then?!!?”
I very much prefer the northern England accent to the southern. The Merseyside tongue is full, and rich; almost a brogue. I don’t care for it, though, bellowed and spit in my ear. Especially when “In My Life” by The Beatles is coming out of the jukebox.
I explained to him, shortly, that I was in town simply because of my love for the Beatles, to check out where they were from, just as I had seen folks do for Elvis in Tupelo and Faulkner in Oxford. He fell silent. About an hour before, another Liverpudlian had told me a story about how Ringo Starr had bought Bill Clinton a beer in that very pub. The future president, the story went, had assisted when the drummer was threatened by some local toughs, or ‘teddy boys,’ as they were once called, in their parts. One far-fetched story, or lie, as they’re called in our parts, was enough. If he also had one, I hoped the drunk would turn away as I turned back to my Echo. Wasn’t to be. He was in my face again, screaming, “John was a prince!”
I noticed I was the only person in The Grapes who thought this irregular; all the other pub patrons ignored this screaming man.
“Did you know John Lennon?” I asked.
“Know him! Of course I did! I loved him, I did! He was the best! The best of the lot!”
For some reason, even though I was sitting in a Liverpool Pub on Mathew Street, a pub famous as a Beatle hang-out and just a couple of doors from The Cavern Club, which The Beatles made world famous, I didn’t believe him at all. He wanted a bloody double vodka. “I have to be going,” I told him. “I’m going to Quarrybank tomorrow.”
“His school! You’re going to see where John did his schoolin’! They won’t let you in. Not without this.” he began scribbling on a paper napkin. I again told him I had no money for a drink.
“Just give it to the bloody headmaster and be gone with you!” He was screaming again.
At Quarrybank the next day, the headmaster smiled when I gave him the napkin --which held a scrawl I couldn’t read-- and proceeded to give me a personal tour of John’s old stomping grounds, like the first stage he played guitar on and the office where he received his many beatings. The crown jewel of this tour was the opening of a dusty old ledger to show me where ten-year-old John Winston Lennon signed his name in 1950.
That night I was back in The Grapes when I met a fellow who told me he could introduce me to Allan Williams, who would be coming in shortly. Allan Williams! He was the first manager of The Beatles, and is credited with with making them a real band and being the guiding force in making band breakups temporary.
Eventually, Allan Williams did come in. You can guess who it was. He didn’t remember me from the night before, but he did tell some great Beatle stories.
John Lennon would have been 54 Wednesday.
