Hamburg

1. Hurricane

    If John had taken a minute longer, George would have run right out of this grotty old club. George approached John with a dry grin and said, "Ey, just cos you are on vocals and all it doesn't make you the leader you know," he nodded towards the stage. "They're waiting and you can't try and control time or whatever you think you're doing."

    "Oi," John laughed. "Who are you again?"

"I'm sick of playing here, John."

    "Ey," he said. "You think I like it? You think Paul or Stu or Pete likes it?"

    "I know Stu does," George nodded towards a man in dark shades and bass in his hand, standing face to face with a short haired, blonde girl.

    John rolled his eyes. He went over to Stuart and whispered, "Race you to the stage," and they ran after each other like mad into the spotlight. The crowd didn't even acknowledge the new presence on stage, let alone cheer. They were too pissed to even know what was noise and what was music.

    George sighed and looked at another man of similar age standing next to him, equally clad in leather jacket, trousers and boots. "Alright, Paul?" he asked.

    "Alright," said Paul, faking a wink. "You?"

"Still got a bit more left, ta very much,"

    Paul laughed and stubbed his cigarette with the heel of his boot. He looked at George and said, "Comin' then?"

    "Can I not?"

"Not by John," Paul laughed, "He's on vocals."

    George nodded. They trotted up and Peter Best, the drummer, followed suit. George didn't even get nervous anymore. They'd been playing in this night club in Hamberg, Germany, for a week now and the crowd was always the same. Unresponsive and distracted. It felt almost as though they were playing from within a sound proof room, looking out through a one sided mirror. There was a fight almost every night. Either over some girl that they could hardly even see, because they were so drunk, or over who pushed whom. And usually a random bystander just got beaten up because... Well, why not?

    Once they were all on the stage, they heard shouts coming from the crowd, which was nothing out of the ordinary, except this time it sounded serious.

    "Cor," said John. "Are they fighting again?"

    "No," said Stu, walking over to John. "It's that band, Rory Storm's band. They're here too. The only other English band here, they all love 'em, you know. Especially, their drummer."

    "Their drummer?" said Paul.

    "Yeah," said Stu. "Ringo."

    "What kind of name is Ringo?" said John.

    "I don't know," said Stu, nodding towards a figure approaching the stage. "Maybe you should try to ask the man himself."

    "No, thanks," John said.

    George was turning the pegs on his guitar, trying to tune it, when Ringo, one of Rory Storm's 'Hurricanes', walked onto the corner of the stage. George looked up at the man and something about him made him react so strangely that he tightened the B string too much and it broke.

    "Ouch," said Ringo, a rather small man with large blue eyes and a sizeable nose. He had a strand of grey hair on the right side of his head and a scruffy stubble on his chin. He had an older man thing going on but he clearly wasn't much older than George's friends. "Your string broke, mate."

    "Aren't you stating the obvious?" George said. He regretted saying it instantly after because he realised how rude it may have sounded but he had reacted out of confusion. George Harrison breaking a string just out of tuning a guitar? And just before a show? How? He didn't mean to come across as rude but it was too late. Ringo pouted his lips and nodded. He looked at his feet then looked back up at George.

    "We've got extra strings," Ringo said, trying to sound helpful. "If you want one."

    "We've got extra strings too, thank you very much," said George. He bit his tongue inside his closed mouth. What was happening. Where was all this anger coming from? Couldn't he smile at least? Apparently not. It was whole club's atmosphere getting to his head. He needed to go out.

    "So, The Beatles, eh?" Ringo said. "Which one are you?"

    "George Harrison," said George.

    "George, eh?" Ringo said, smiling to himself. "Suits you."

    "What do you mean, 'suits me'?"

    "I dunno," he laughed. "You look like a George."

    "What's your name then?" George asked him.

    "Ringo," he said. "Richard Starkey, but they all call me Ringo. Ringo Starr."

    "What kind of name is Ringo?"

    "Well," Ringo held out his hands before George. "I got a bunch of rings, you see."

    George felt a strange sting inside his stomach. It was an unfamiliar feeling but he felt himself noting mentally that Ringo had rather... nice hands.

    "Ah," George nodded quickly. "I see." He looked around at the other guys; they were talking amongst themselves. "Do you wanna get out of here?"

    "Haven't you got a show to do?" Ringo said.

    "What, to these drunkards?" said George.

    "What're your mates gonna say?"

    "That I betrayed them?"

    Ringo laughed. He shrugged, "I don't know you George, but I think, I could really do with some sky over my head so, yes please."