Isn’t it a terrible feeling when someone you admire falls from grace? I had such an experience, a couple of years ago, when I read about an incident involving Paul McCartney. Apparently some lunatic had decided to starve himself in a glass box suspended over the River Thames, and Sir Paul couldn’t resist taking a peek. But when he arrived at Tower Bridge, he flew into a rage when someone tried to take his own picture.
"Fuck off!” exclaimed the balladeer. “I've come to see this stupid cunt and you are not going to take a picture of me tonight."
This isn’t the sort of language one expects from a noble knight, let alone the man who made a fortune by telling the world he was sending them all his loving. He ought to have realised that the onlookers would be far more interested in a celebrated artist than a stupid cunt in a glass box.
It’s a little known fact that Paul was greatly influenced in his life by a gorilla. After his trip to India in 1968, he spent a week alone in a mansion by Lake Victoria. It seems he had annoyed the other Beatles by calling the Maharishi “a stupid cunt” (which he was). To alleviate his melancholy, he would sit in the veranda every evening and sing soulful ballads to his strumming guitar.
As luck would have it, the alpha male of the local gorilla band was a fan of easy-listening music. When he heard Paul performing Moon River – and not making a very good job of it – he went over to the mansion and sang backing vocals, using coconut shells for percussion. Paul was so delighted that he invited the gorilla over for lunch the next day. They had an interesting discussion: Paul told the gorilla that he’d always loved animals as a boy, and the gorilla replied by saying that Rubber Soul was a major artistic leap for The Beatles, combining more nuanced lyrics with innovative instrumentation. When Paul began to chomp into his impala steak, he noticed that the gorilla was taking only vegetables.
“Don’t you eat meat, then?” inquired Paul.
“I do not, Mr McCartney,” replied the gorilla. “And I should have thought that someone who professes to love animals might try to avoid eating them.”
The shamefaced singer stopped swallowing his steak immediately. “I have thought about giving up meat,” he said apologetically. “But isn’t, like, being a vegetarian a bit queer or something?”
The gorilla put down his cutlery, rose to his feet and displayed his magnificent physique to the startled musician. “Mr McCartney!” he huffed. “I have a harem of seven females and have fathered more than twenty infants. Do I look queer to you?”
Paul was forced to concede the point and became a strict vegetarian from that day onward. Shortly after returning to England, he married a nice vegetarian girl called Linda and they had three delightful vegetarian children.
So how did things come to such a pass at Tower Bridge? I suspect that Paul has been a lost soul since the death of Linda, who was an easy-going wench, even if she did speak in an odd Liverpudlian-American accent. After marrying the woman without a foot his life seems to have got a lot more stressful. Not that I have anything against women without feet, per se. It just seems that the one he married is beautiful, intelligent, talented and extraordinarily catty. He’s gone from Laid-Back Linda to Hen-Pecking Heather, which is more than enough to make a man lose his marbles.
Maybe what Paul really needs is a sabbatical away from the trouble-and-strife. I have asked Dr Whipsnade to invite him over to the Congo to renew his acquaintance with the gorilla nation. I reckon that a few months spent chewing green shoots and chasing baboons is just what he needs to recharge the batteries. It certainly worked a treat for Daryl Hannah, who’s been a new woman since some friendly gorillas attended to her skin parasites.
"Fuck off!” exclaimed the balladeer. “I've come to see this stupid cunt and you are not going to take a picture of me tonight."
This isn’t the sort of language one expects from a noble knight, let alone the man who made a fortune by telling the world he was sending them all his loving. He ought to have realised that the onlookers would be far more interested in a celebrated artist than a stupid cunt in a glass box.
It’s a little known fact that Paul was greatly influenced in his life by a gorilla. After his trip to India in 1968, he spent a week alone in a mansion by Lake Victoria. It seems he had annoyed the other Beatles by calling the Maharishi “a stupid cunt” (which he was). To alleviate his melancholy, he would sit in the veranda every evening and sing soulful ballads to his strumming guitar.
As luck would have it, the alpha male of the local gorilla band was a fan of easy-listening music. When he heard Paul performing Moon River – and not making a very good job of it – he went over to the mansion and sang backing vocals, using coconut shells for percussion. Paul was so delighted that he invited the gorilla over for lunch the next day. They had an interesting discussion: Paul told the gorilla that he’d always loved animals as a boy, and the gorilla replied by saying that Rubber Soul was a major artistic leap for The Beatles, combining more nuanced lyrics with innovative instrumentation. When Paul began to chomp into his impala steak, he noticed that the gorilla was taking only vegetables.
“Don’t you eat meat, then?” inquired Paul.
“I do not, Mr McCartney,” replied the gorilla. “And I should have thought that someone who professes to love animals might try to avoid eating them.”
The shamefaced singer stopped swallowing his steak immediately. “I have thought about giving up meat,” he said apologetically. “But isn’t, like, being a vegetarian a bit queer or something?”
The gorilla put down his cutlery, rose to his feet and displayed his magnificent physique to the startled musician. “Mr McCartney!” he huffed. “I have a harem of seven females and have fathered more than twenty infants. Do I look queer to you?”
Paul was forced to concede the point and became a strict vegetarian from that day onward. Shortly after returning to England, he married a nice vegetarian girl called Linda and they had three delightful vegetarian children.
So how did things come to such a pass at Tower Bridge? I suspect that Paul has been a lost soul since the death of Linda, who was an easy-going wench, even if she did speak in an odd Liverpudlian-American accent. After marrying the woman without a foot his life seems to have got a lot more stressful. Not that I have anything against women without feet, per se. It just seems that the one he married is beautiful, intelligent, talented and extraordinarily catty. He’s gone from Laid-Back Linda to Hen-Pecking Heather, which is more than enough to make a man lose his marbles.
Maybe what Paul really needs is a sabbatical away from the trouble-and-strife. I have asked Dr Whipsnade to invite him over to the Congo to renew his acquaintance with the gorilla nation. I reckon that a few months spent chewing green shoots and chasing baboons is just what he needs to recharge the batteries. It certainly worked a treat for Daryl Hannah, who’s been a new woman since some friendly gorillas attended to her skin parasites.
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