More From Hamburg

The Indra

The five boys trooped into the club, four fiercely clutching their guitars, and paused at the back, gawping, there could be no other word for it, at the girl on the low stage, her scanty attire becoming increasingly scanty by the moment. None made any move towards the stage or to the backstage area, but simply stood frozen at the back, astonished at the spectacle, unsure whether to be titillated, interested, amused or just horrified. None had reached a decision on that question by the time she finished her act, with a flourish of feathers, a bow and a graceless departure from the stage. John and Paul looked at each other. "Fuck," said John, and Paul responded with wide eyes and a shrug.

"We're early", said Stu.

They gazed across the room, peering through dim lighting and coils of cigarette smoke. The bar lined the far wall.

"Drink?" suggested John.

With varying degrees of bravado, whether real or assumed, they strolled across the room, winding between tables at which customers of all shapes and sizes sat slumped over drinks. A few looked up at them disparagingly as they passed. For George, it felt like the longest walk in his life. Even longer than the time he'd spent his bus money on chips and had to walk home all the way from Aintree after a party that had gone very wrong. He kept his eyes on John's back and, possibly unconsciously, imitated the arrogant Lennon stride. He even managed to maintain the veneer of confidence as he reached the bar and met the barman's eyes. The boys then clustered together, realising simultaneously that this was one part of their act they'd never rehearsed.

John looked at Paul. Paul looked at George, who found an interesting bar mat to examine. Paul looked at Pete and glared. Pete cleared his throat.

"Funf Biere, bitte," he said, perhaps a little too loudly.

There was an ominous pause from the barman; but then he turned away from them and started to pour what turned out to be, unmistakably, five beers. The five customers all exhaled with relief; until the next hurdle, where their none-too-friendly host said something completely incomprehensible, but which they took, correctly, to be the price of the drinks lined up in front of them on the grubby bar.

"Who's got some fucking money then?" snapped John, nerves making him even more edgy than usual.

Paul reached into his inside pocket and revealed the corner of a wad of notes. "I have," he smiled serenely. At John's look of surprise, he offered, "Allan gave it to me. He wasn't going to give it to an eejit like you, was'e."

The barman looked unfriendly.

George swallowed nervously.

"Pete," hissed Paul. "How much does he want?"

If looks could have killed, Paul McCartney's life would have ended there and then. But Pete too swallowed, turned back to the barman and asked, in a voice rather smaller and more faltering than before, "Wie viel?"

The barman barked something. Several customers looked up with interest. "Give him some fucking money," John grated, and Paul, very aware of the inadvisability of bringing out the full wad of cash into full view, reached into his pocket and peeled a few notes off the stash at random and passed them to Pete, a desperate plea in his usually doe-like eyes. Pete placed the notes on the bar, and the five English lads on their first trip abroad collectively held their breath.

The barman stared at the notes. He picked them up and fanned them out, and then looked back up at the five anxious faces. "Senk you," he said, and then turned and placed the notes in the till.

"He speaks fucking English!" blurted Stu.

"'Ere, where's the change?" said John, leaning forward, but the others dragged him away to a nearby table before their sadistically-minded barman could react, and piled the precious guitars safely under the table. Limp with relief, the five Beatles to a man picked up their beer mugs and drained a good third in one gulp before pausing for breath.