The World Spinning Round (Beatles/Paul McCartney)

Interlude: View from the Mull of Kintyre

Derek Taylor was having a dreadful month.

It was part of his job as press officer to field annoying inquiries from the press. All in a day's work, etc. But what wasn't written anywhere in his job description was debunking nutso conspiracy theories.

He'd laughed at the first phone call asking if Paul was dead. He'd similarly shrugged off questions about Revolution 9, because who had the time to even come up with the idea of playing a record backwards? By the fourth call asking if the car crash had occurred late on a Tuesday night or early on a Wednesday morning... well, at that point, he knew they had a problem.

From what he could tell, the theory originated with a college kid in America who wrote an article pontificating that Beatle Paul McCartney was insane, freaked out... or perhaps dead. It should have been a non-starter, this stupid theory in this stupid student newspaper with a circulation of 300. There's no world in which it should have gained any sort of traction.

And yet.

Somehow it took hold of the public's imagination. Perhaps it had to do with the fact that Americans were, broadly speaking, hooligans. Or maybe they were burnt out on news bulletins from Vietnam and needed something else to talk about. Whatever the reason, all of a sudden, this pimply college kid was charging radio deejays $10 for five-minute interviews and Derek's phone was ringing off the hook.

The fact that Derek, Ringo, John, Mal, and George had all stated publicly that Paul was alive did nothing to stop the tidal wave. Why bother with the truth when it was much more enjoyable to believe that he'd died back in '66, either on a Tuesday or a Wednesday. And, of course, The Beatles didn't admit to their bandmate's death. What would be the fun in that!? Instead, they found a bloke who looked just like Paul. Just fucking like him! And this imposter just happened to have the same voice and the same uncanny ability to turn anything into a catchy song. What luck those Beatles had, finding an exact duplicate of their bandmate and pulling the wool over the eyes of the world

(Although, if they'd managed to find an imposter with eyelashes that long and the ability to write Hey Jude, then congratulations to Fake Paul. He probably should have had the top job all along).

If speaking candidly, which Derek rarely did, he rather agreed that the real Paul was possibly insane and/or freaked out. The man had become increasingly arsey over the past year, always banging on about spending less at Apple even though everyone knows that one must spend money to make money. And then he'd fled to Scotland the month prior, practically incommunicado ever since.

Still, Derek was almost certain that he was alive.

But that didn't stop Neil from ordering him to travel to Paul's farm to ensure he was still amongst the living. Bonus points if he could take a photograph of the Beatle holding that day's newspaper. Never mind the fact that Paul would bang on about that being something that one does with hostages, not musicians, and besides, didn't he have the right to take a goddamn holiday without anyone bothering him?

Turn me on, dead man.

The wheels of the chartered plane hit the runway of Campbeltown, which was the tiniest airport Derek had ever seen. He didn't expect to stay long, so he carried only a briefcase containing the morning edition of The Daily Telegraph and the notebook in which he scribbled ideas for a potential memoir. He'd initially packed two spliffs but binned them at the airport because the memory of John's arrest on drugs charges was still quite fresh in his memory.

(The day the news about John and Yoko had broken, Ray Connelley had telephoned him at Apple saying that he knew this would happen. Derek had taken a deep breath and begun to shout:  "We never take drugs, Ray! It is most improper of you to say so on the telephone. How dare you libel us." Afterward, he took a fortifying drag of a joint before heading to the police station to bail them out).