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katruzka

mujer - 39 años, San Juan, Puerto Rico

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Blog 13

  • LA PAPELETA LEGISLATIVA ES LA MAS IMPORTANTE EN EL 2008

    "Apathy isn't it, we can do something"
    --John Lennon

    El remedio es peor que la enfermedad. Ese refrán explica muy bien lo que ocurrió con la Rama Legislativa en las elecciones del 2004. Muchos votaron para que la mayoría fuera del PNP como “castigo” a la mayoría Popular. ¿Se ha puesto a pensar quién castigó a quién? La Rama Legislativa sigue igual, o peor que el cuatrenio pasado. Nos hemos castigado a nosotros mismos.
    ¿Qué se puede hacer? Sencillo, primero, vayamos a votar masivamente en las primarias. Usted puede votar solamente por un candidato. Además puede nominar directamente. No dejemos que el “corazón del rollo” sea el que decida quienes son los candidatos en las elecciones del 2008. Segundo, en las elecciones generales del 2008, la papeleta más importante va a ser la Legislativa. Vamos a escoger con cuidado quienes nos van a representar los próximos cuatro años. No nos dejemos llevar por la primera “tumbacoco” que se nos aparezca en el camino tocando “jingles” y con candidatos bailarines. Más sugerencias van a estar apareciendo en la página www.freewebs.com/papeletamasimportante .
    Vamos a dar un voto castigo de verdad. No nos castiguemos a nosotros mismos cuatro años más.

  • Cynthia Lennon in her own words Part 4

    The house stood on a hill at the end of a long, wooded drive. It was huge - a mansion really, in Tudor style, surrounded by acres of mature gardens. Rhododendrons bloomed along the path, daisies speckled the grass, about 140 steps led up to the back door, and inside the sun poured through big mullioned windows.
    John and I grinned at each other. We couldn't quite believe that we might really buy this place. Until now we'd only ever lived in our family semis or rented flats. We'd never even had our own garden before. But the accountants were telling us we could afford it and it was a bargain at £19,000 - cheap because it needed renovation.
    "D'you like it, Cyn?" John asked as we wandered through the empty rooms. Happily I sank onto a window seat and rubbed dust off the latticed pane. Through the diamond glass I could see a stone terrace baking in the sun.
    "I love it," I said.
    And that was it. Suddenly we'd bought our first house.
    The Beatles were now so successful it was obvious that we all needed to be based in the South, within easy reach of the studios and record offices of the capital. But our first attempt at a London home hadn't worked out.
    Bob Freeman, a photographer friend of John's, had mentioned that the maisonette above his own in Emperor's Gate, London, had become vacant. It was a good location, very comfortable and extremely reasonably priced at only £15 a week.
    Looking back, it seems ridiculous now that we were concerned about the rent but we still didn't realise how much the Beatles were worth or how long their popularity would last. We'd been brought up to be careful with money, to economise, and it hadn't yet occurred to us to change our ways.
    Anyway, we went to see the maisonette and we liked it. There was a kitchen, sitting-room and two bedrooms, all bright and clean and, best of all, Bob and his wife Sunny and their children lived downstairs, so I wouldn't be completely alone when John was away.
    We barely even noticed that there were six flights of stairs up from the front door - a killing when you're struggling with a baby, a pushchair and a couple of bags of shopping. We never gave it a thought. Impulsive and enthusiastic as ever, we took the maisonette and moved to London.
    At first it was fine. I enjoyed myself furnishing our new home in simple Sixties style from Derry and Toms - always conscious that I mustn't be extravagant because the bubble could burst at any time. But it didn't matter. We'd never had a whole place to furnish before so it was fun. We settled in happily and John pursued his ever more hectic career.
    But it wasn't long before the problems started. The stairs became a chore but, far worse than that, the fans discovered our address. It had reached the stage where John couldn't walk down the street without being stopped or chased and now he wasn't even safe at home.
    By hook or by crook the fans got into the building. They'd wait outside all day until somebody opened the front door, then they'd rush in. They'd sleep on the stairs, and whenever I went shopping I had to step over bodies and push through 15 to 20 young girls to get out. Sometimes they were very sweet and would offer to help with the baby but somehow that didn't make it any better.
    Then they took to pushing chewing-gum in the keyhole so that John couldn't get in and as he fumbled with the lock they'd grab his scarf and pester for autographs. Often late at night, when I was alone, weirdoes would come knocking on our internal front door and I'd lay there in the dark, heart racing, wondering if this time, they' might get into the flat.
    It was getting ridiculous. The last straw came when one night the air terminal nearby caught fire. It was absolutely terrifying. Police cars and fire-engines were racing past our door, flames were licking into the sky and the whole building, only 300 yards away, became a blazing torch. John, as usual, was away. I grabbed Julian from his bed and stood at the window, clutching him tight, staring out at the orange night. Any minute those roaring flames might change direction and we'd have to run.
    Fortunately, after a long struggle, the firemen got the blaze under control and we didn't have to be evacuated, but I think that finished it for me. "Enough's enough," I told John when he came home, and he agreed. he was getting fed up with the constant battle to get inside his own front door. What we needed, he said, was somewhere quiet, where the fans couldn't intrude.
    As it happened, at this point George had built a house in Esher, Surrey. It was a lovely leafy, peaceful area.
    "Why don't you look for something round here?" George suggested. And that's how we came to be looking round the run-down property in St George's Hill, Weybridge, that bright afternoon.
    We both fell in love with the place and there was no need to carry on looking. This was definitely where we wanted to live.
    In fact the condition of the house wasn't that bad. You could have moved in straightaway but everyone was saying, "Oh, my God, you've got to do this and you'll have to change that." Until in the end we installed ourselves in the little staff quarters at the top of the house while the builders took over the rest for the following 12 months. The next thing we knew, an interior designer was coming along with swatches and colour schemes and we were having to make decisions about the whole house in one go.
    I was confused. Why is this happening, I wondered suddenly. I'm an artist, John's an artist, we can create our own colour schemes and choosing furniture's no problem if you've got the money. But the whole thing had spiralled out of control. We were both very young and ignorant and we thought this was the way it's done.
    But this was only a tiny doubt. Generally life became even more exciting. The Beatles grew more successful than we'd ever dreamed possible and by 1964 John had had enough of pretending that he wasn't married. Early in the year the group was due to tour the USA and John wanted me to go with him. He knew there would be reporters and photographers every step of the way so in effect he was saying to the world: "Look, whether you like it or not this is my wife and I have a baby."
    Sure enough, it started as soon as we arrived at the airport. The photographers were waiting and they photographed us together, then there was a press conference and afterwards they even followed us onto the plane and continued the interviews all the way across the Atlantic. I was glad I'd dressed up in my Mary Quant PVC coat, the fur hat John had bought me in Paris and my trendy boots.
    Later the boys appeared on the Ed Sullivan Show and when John walked out, the announcer said, "Sorry, girls. He's married."
    I was standing at the back behind the curtains and I breathed a great sigh of relief. I thought, "Well, finally, finally, it's out in the open." 'After all the hard times and upsets this was the icing on the cake. We'd gone from egg and chips in Hamburg to caviar and pawpaws with lime in the U.S.'
    The tour was tremendous. The response to the Beatles was fantastic. Apparently the night of the Ed Sullivan Show was broadcast the crime rate plummeted because everyone was glued to their TV set.
    We went to Washington where we met Muhammad Ali and the boys staged a mock battle with him for the photographers.
    They'd been a bit worried that Ali, being such a great showman, would steal their thunder but in fact the meeting went very well. Mind you, he took the mickey out of them a bit because he'd been a star for so long and they were such newcomers. For once the boys were almost lost for quips. They didn't know quite how to handle him.
    But it was wonderful fun. Everywhere we went we were treated like royalty. The boys played the Carnegie Hall - the first time a pop group had ever played there - and it was absolutely packed.
    When we drove to our hotel we had an escort of mounted police on either side of the limousine and 2,000 screaming fans lined the streets outside. I couldn't get over it. After all the hard times and upsets this was the icing on the cake. We'd gone from egg and chips in Hamburg to caviar and pawpaws with lime in the USA.
    Yet when we got to the hotel there was one tiny moment which made me stop and think. We dashed in on a wave of euphoria and spent about an hour sorting out who was going to have which room. There was a lot of bouncing on beds and being stupid but eventually we were settled and came out to relax and have a drink. 'Each girl seemed more gorgeous than the last and the boys couldn't help but look at them. I suddenly thought, so this is how it's going to be from now on, is it?'
    Suddenly we were inundated with models, singers and famous people. These girls would come in looking absolutely stunning and just sit there gazing at John, Paul, George and Ringo. Each one seemed more gorgeous than the last and the boys couldn't help but look at them. I saw John's eyes take in the latest arrival and suddenly I thought, Uh, oh. So this is how it's going to be from now on, is it? I saw in an instant that no man worth his salt is going to be able to say no forever to temptation like this unless he's a saint.
    It wasn't just the boys. It was the roadies, the entourage, the lot of them. It was: "You come out with me tonight and I'll introduce you to John... or whoever..."
    I saw the whole thing in a flash and I realised there and then that I'd have to close my mind to the situation or my relationship with John would be impossible.
    Anyway, after making my decision, I refused to let it spoil the rest of the trip. I put the girls out of my mind and tried not to thinkof them again. We went on to Miami for a rest and somebody lent us their beachside residence complete with boat, water-skis, the lot.
    To this day I don't know who owned the place but we joked amongst ourselves that it must be the mafia. There was this big, sinister-looking man, the image of Al Capone, hanging about the house. He never spoke but he was obviously keeping an eye on things and us and we decided it would be a good idea not to upset him.
    There was much hilarity but only out of his earshot. We spent our time sun-bathing and water-skiing and larking about. It was wonderful.
    The tour rushed past and all too soon it was time for the plane back to Britain and real life again - or at least real life for me. Looking after Julian and all the day-to-day chores of running a home kept my feet on the ground but for much of the time John didn't have that familiar stability.
    We didn't have a normal marriage. Nobody pretended it was a normal marriage but for a long time we were happy with the relationship we developed.
    When he was home, John was a typical father. He couldn't stand changing nappies - I believed he got involved with that later in life - but he loved to watch bathtime. And when Julian went on the bottle, John took his turn at feeding him. he crawled about on the floor with his son and cuddled him just like any other dad. The only thing he couldn't do was take him for walks in the park, because even here, in the country, the fans found us. In the end we had to put up very high security gates at the end of the drive to stop them getting in.
    John enjoyed lazy mornings reading the paper in bed. He loved cornflakes and banana for breakfast and roast lunches on Sundays.
    At long last the alterations were finished and we were able to move downstairs into our grand house but I'm sorry to say that while half of it worked, the rest we hated. Ultra-modern furnishings and colours jarred as far as we were concerned with the old-fashioned style of the building, and the sitting room was particularly unwelcoming. There was an amazingly uncomfortable Italian-style leather suite with metal bars. Two lamps were set just so, there was a glass table in the middle and two more tables arranged at careful distances. It was probably the height of good taste but to us it looked sterile and impersonal. More like a hotel lounge than a family home.
    The kitchen was now the most enormous I'd even seen; split level with everything chosen for me right down to the pots and pans, and everywhere with this stark, masculine colour scheme, with deep shades in plain designs. It was smart but it felt as if the house belonged to someone else. Over the years, at enormous cost, we gradually changed the house to our own style. I bought lots of flowery sheets and towels and lampshades and pillows to try and introduce a more feminine element and John decided he wanted black carpet in the sitting room and comfortable seats. Eventually we chose two semi-circular settees in pale, silvery grey with lime green covers and two easy chairs also in lime green. It sounds yucky but in fact it looked lovely and it was so nice to sink down onto something soft and comfortable.
    Little by little, money was beginning to change our lives. The house was so big I needed someone to help me with the housework, and a lovely lady called Dot, who used to iron for the previous occupants, came to my rescue. Then, living in the country, we needed a car so we had to have a chauffer as well. Enter Leslie Anthony, a handsome ex-guardsman, devoted to John. Finally the extensive grounds were far too much for me to manage so there was a gardener as well.
    All of a sudden, from being an ordinary housewife, I was running a staff of three. There were three sets of wages to find and three people, however nice, always in your space. Soon there were little quarrels and petty jealousies going on between them and I didn't know how to cope. I'd not been brought up to this sort of thing. Anyone in my house was treated as a friend. I found I couldn't give orders and the whole situation didn't work out very well. With all that help I should have been a lady of leisure but somehow I was always busy, dividing my time between Julian and the staff.
    That's not to say we didn't enjoy the money. We certainly did. We were broadening our horizons. Although John and I could no longer walk out together anywhere we chose, or jump on a bus as in the old days, Brian had given us a big book filled with addresses and phone numbers of all the best restaurants and clubs and places we might like to visit where we would be unmolested.
    These days we knew which knife and fork to use, which wine to drink and how to behave. Often the other boys and their wives and girlfriends would come round for the evening. We'd rent a film and sit around drinking Scotch and coke (we'd discovered Scotch by then) and smoking very expensive cigarettes from America with little black granules in the filter-tips which we thought were the height of sophistication.
    My closest friends were Patti Boyd who lived with and then quickly married George, and Ringo's wife Maureen who'd recently moved into St George's Hill. As Beatle wives we had an unwritten, silent code between us. We stayed in the background, we were supportive and we didn't question our role.
    Maureen in particular was so devoted that she used to stay up all night when Ringo went to the recording studios to cook him a roast dinner at four in the morning. And this was despite the fact that she had three children to care for during the day as well. She believed it was important that Ringo had a hot meal waiting for him when he came home from work - no matter what time that happened to be.
    And still the money rolled in. We never seemed to actually see it. John didn't have a cheque book, he didn't have a credit card, he didn't have any cash in his pocket but people were telling us we were millionaires and he grew accustomed to having whatever he wanted.
    There was a terrible amount of waste. People who'd met John would come to the house and sell him things. He was easily conned. He'd listen to their story and then say, "Isn't that fantastic. I'll have ten."
    One day an Indian salesman came to the door. "I have these rugs," he said and unrolled them on the floor.
    John glanced down and said, "Right, I'll have that one, that one, that one and that one."
    He could never buy just one of anything, yet until that moment the idea of wanting new rugs had never entered his head. Everything was decided on a whim.
    Soon he got into cars as well. John was a terrible driver. He didn't pass his test till quite late and he was inexperienced and erratic at the wheel but he loved the look of cars. The chauffer was also a car buff and he was always telling John about great deals that were going.
    I'd already passed my test by this time and suddenly I found myself showered with vehicles. I didn't choose them. The chauffer would suggest them to John and I'd come out one morning to find my old car gone and a different one in its place.
    At first I had a Beetle, then a white Mini, then that was swapped for a green Beetle and one memorable day out of the blue I had a Porsche. That was a lovely surprise. The only problem was that some time later it was traded in for John's Ferrari so I lost my Porsche. I was quite upset about that. John even had a Rolls-Royce repainted in extraordinary psychedelic flower-power style. It looked like something out of a fairground and I believe Rolls Royce were very annoyed about it!
    Looking back, the whole thing was lunacy. There was so much waste. But that's what happens when young people who're not accustomed to it get instant, apparently unlimited money. They don't know how to value things. They're like kids let loose in a toyshop.
    In fact, at Christmas, that's literally what happened. Harrods allowed the boys the run of the shop, after hours, to buy their Christmas presents.
    John came home with a miniature Rolls-Royce pedal car for Julian and dozens of other games and kits far too old for him. For me there were armloads of glamorous lingerie. There were negligees so exotic you'd think you were in Arabia, with long trains in orange chiffon, cleavage down to the waist and ostrich feathers which got up your nose when you were cooking the bacon and eggs in the morning. It wasn't practical but it was fun.
    Then John decided that we had to have a swimming pool. On our steeply sloping site the construction was difficult and the builders were back for another six months but, eventually, there it was. Sadly, John was hardly ever home to swim in it. 'I suddenly found myself isolated. Visits, however friendly, were by appointment only. I bought some shoes one day, and the staff were so nice I kept going back to buy more. I just wanted someone to talk to'
    And that was the problem. I was used to John's travelling by now but that didn't stop me missing him and the money didn't make up for it. In a strange way it made things worse.
    Suddenly I found myself more isolated than I'd ever been before. Down south there didn't seem to be the casual dropping in on friends that I'd known in the north. Visits, however friendly, were by appointment only. Even my old mates seemed to fall away as if they were embarrassed by the wealth and luxury.
    My best friend Phyl came to stay once but she didn't come back. She couldn't handle it. Besides, she was married now with her own life to lead and these days our paths lay in different directions.
    I loved my beautiful house and the beautiful gardens but often it felt like an ivory tower. When I looked out of my window I couldn't see another soul or another house. I knew that Maureen was only down the road but she could have been a million miles away. I was lonely. I took to visiting the shops in Weybridge and, one day, seeing some shoes I liked in the shoes shop, I went in to try them on. The staff were so nice to me that I kept going back. I bought so many pairs of shoes they must have thought I had some kind of fetish. If only they'd known. I just wanted someone to talk to.
    In the end I thought, "Well, if the mountain won't come to Mohammed..." and I called Leslie the chauffer and said: "Take me to Hoylake."
    It was to be the first of many such visits. Mum was now living in Trinity Road, a narrow street of terraced houses, and several hours later our Silver Cloud Rolls-Royce was cruising slowly down the pot holes, causing much twitching of net curtains on either side.
    Embarrassed, I jumped out, hauled Julian after me and grabbed our bags. "Go off and enjoy yourself," I told Leslie quickly. "Find something to do - I don't mind what - only take the car away from Trinity Road and don't bring it back till next week."
    Conscious of dozens of unseen eyes on me, I couldn't relax until I saw the huge pale car disappear round the corner. I didn't want anyone to feel that I'd changed. Inside I was still the same Cynthia but I knew they wouldn't believe that if they saw me swanning about in a chauffer-driven Rolls-Royce.
    There I was with all the accoutrements of wealth but all I wanted was fish and chips from the back street.
    Julian and I stayed with Mum for a week and it was bliss. We went shopping in Market Street, we dropped in on neighbours and friends. It was so comfortable and familiar it was as if the intervening years hadn't happened.
    John in his own way, despite what he might have been getting up to, missed us too. I found part of a letter the other day, written while he was thousands of miles away on tour, looking forward to the day when he would be home:
    ...I'm sure Dot and Lil... etc can understand something as simple as us wanting to be alone for a day," he wrote. "I don't mean Julian, though - I mean don't pack him off to Dot's or anywhere. I really miss him as a person now. Do you know what I mean? He's not so much "the baby" or "my baby" any more - he's a real, living part of me now... I can't wait to see him. I miss him more than I've ever done before. I think it's been a slow process, my feeling like a real father!
    "I hope all this is clear and understandable. I spend hours in dressing rooms and things thinking about the times I've wasted not being with him and playing with him. You know I keep thinking of those stupid times when I kept reading bloody newspapers while he's in the room with me and I've decided it's ALL WRONG! He doesn't see enough of me as it is and I really want him to know and love me and miss me like I seem to be missing both of you so much.
    "I'll go now, 'cause I'm bringing myself down thinking what a thoughtless bastard I seem to be and it's only sort of three o'clock in the afternoon and it seems the wrong time of day to feel so emotional. I really feel like crying. It's stupid and I'm choking up now as I'm writing. I don't know what's the matter with me. It's not the tour that's so different from other tours. I mean I'm having lots of laughs (you know the type, hee! hee!) but in between the laughs there is such a drop. I mean, there seems no in-between feelings.
    Anyway, I'm going now so that this letter doesn't get too draggy.
    I love you very much. To Cyn from John.
    The letter is accompanied by 21 painstaking hand-drawn kisses.
    Whatever he might be getting up to on the road, I couldn't doubt that John loved me and Julian after such touching, heartfelt words.
    Yet gradually, as the years passed, our relationship changed. John changed and drugs had a lot to do with it.
    It was inevitable that the pressure would mount. John had no control over his career. The lawyers, the managers, the record company - they were the ones who seemed to have the real control, who knew what was going on. John had to go along with what they said. There was so much money around, yet the Beatles were so young and vulnerable.
    The stress grew and John wanted something the help him to relax.
    At first it was pot. Gradually I noticed that every party you went to, people were passing reefers round. The first time I'd come across it was in a record producer's flat. Somebody had introduced him to pot and he wanted to introduce it to everyone else.
    "It's fun," he told us. "It's relaxing."
    So we all tried it. Within minutes I realised it was a mistake. Everyone else seemed to be enjoying themselves. They were giggling and happy but after just a couple of puffs I felt paranoid. Someone was playing a hideous trick on us, I decided. I didn't trust anyone.
    All around me the others seemed to have turned into idiots. Somebody would stand up and point to something, some ordinary everyday object and everyone would fall on the floor laughing. I couldn't understand it. "It's not funny," I wanted to tell them. "What's funny about a table lamp?" But it was useless. They only giggled all the more. You couldn't get through to them. They'd gone stupid.
    I'd always been keen to try new things but that night I ended up with my head down the toilet for about two hours. Pot was a big mistake.
    John, however, enjoyed it, but he confined his smoking to the studio. There it calmed him down and helped him to enjoy the music. It didn't seem such a bad thing.
    But there was much worse to come.
    One night a friend of George and Patti invited the four of us round to dinner with his wife.
    At first it was a pleasant evening. They had a lovely home in central London and the dinner was wonderful. The wife was a superb cook and we enjoyed the meal. Afterwards coffee was served and a large bowl of sugar lumps appeared beside the silver pot.
    "Have more coffee," they kept urging, "more coffee," and each time they poured, these sugar lumps were loaded into the cups.
    They were so insistent that it began to seem a little odd but we'd drunk a lot of wine and we didn't want to offend them, so obediently we drank the coffee. How were we to know that those glistening sugar lumps were laced with LSD?
    Afterwards we moved into the drawing-room. George and Patti sat on one settee, John and I sat on the settee opposite and then simultaneously, we began to feel strange.
    "Something's happening here," said John suddenly.
    I knew just what he meant. Without warning the room had stretched to about a mile long and sort of disappeared into the distance. The host and his wife came in and when we looked at them their bodies were moving and changing, twisting and contracting in a most alarming way.
    George stood up. "We've got to go home," he said quickly.
    John and I were at his side in an instant. We knew these people had done something to us and our overwhelming instinct was to escape. The four of us hurried towards the door as fast as our drugged feet would take us. George had driven us here in his little Mini Cooper and it never occurred to us in our irrational state that it might not be a good idea to let him drive.
    "No, no, you can't go home," said George's friend, running after us. They were beginning to panic. "You must come to this club we know. You'll love it." But we didn't trust them. They'd poisoned us and we didn't feel safe. At all costs we had to get away. We dashed into the street, jumped into George's Mini and sped up the road. At the wheel, though, George began to have a few misgivings about his driving ability. We were nearing a club we knew so he suggested we stop there instead of going all the way back to Weybridge.
    "We'll be safe there," he said.
    So, we piled out again and staggered unsteadily into the club, wondering what had happened and what other unpleasant surprises might be in store. But we'd hardly sat down when the couple arrived behind us. Obviously they'd followed us to try and persuade us to go back with them. But in our drugged condition their appearance was positively supernatural, as if they were haunting us.
    We turned to look at them and each saw the hallucination. Before our eyes they turned into cadavers, then skeletons, then devils. It was absolutely terrifying.
    Horrified, we fled back to the car once more and this time we weren't stopping until we reached Weybridge.
    But the drug was tightening its hold. Halfway along the road Patti was hanging out of the window, shouting, "Look at that shop window, I want to smash it! Stop the car, George."
    She didn't know what she was saying, of course, and George took no notice. Then suddenly it was like being inside a bubble and we were flying along above the road. How we ever got home to Surrey in one piece I don't know. A combination of good luck and George's brilliant driving, I should think.
    Anyway, somehow we got into George's house and still we couldn't get back to normal. John was hitting his head against a wall and arguing with the fish in the fish tank. God only knows what George was doing and all I could think of was Julian. "I'm never going to see him again," I told myself. "I'll never see him again."
    Fighting panic, I told myself to be sensible, I'd try to be sick then I'd find one of the guest bedrooms and go to sleep. I'd be alright in the morning.
    I staggered upstairs, past one of the cats which was looking somehow different today. I peered closer and saw that all the hairs on its body had lifted and become animated. Each little hair moving independently of the others. Even more horrified I pressed on.
    I found a bedroom, sank down on the bed and closed my eyes against any visual tricks the room might try to play on me. But still sleep wouldn't come. Monstrous things were happening in my brain and I searched for some mundane thought to anchor me to sanity.
    For some reason a fragment of a long forgotten domestic science lesson floated into my mind. We'd been taught how to iron a handkerchief. Suddenly that handkerchief became vitally important. Blocking out all else I hung onto its image and in my mind I tried to iron it perfectly the way the teacher had shown us.
    Eight hours I spent mentally ironing that little white square, smoothing every crease, nosing the point of the iron down each careful fold. Over and over it I went, concentrating hard to shut out the lunacy my drugged brain was trying to produce. "When I've finished this hankie I'll be okay," I told myself. And I was right. At last, as the drug wore off I drifted into sleep, the beautifully pressed handkerchief still lying on my mental ironing-board.
    Needless to say we went home shattered and horrified by our experience. We'd been given LSD, we realised. Acid. I for one had no desire to go near it again.
    It wasn't until some weeks later that I realised John didn't feel the same way. He took to disappearing for a night and a day at a time and he'd come back with someone and they'd both taken it.
    I couldn't understand this astonishing about-turn. John tried to explain. Once the shock had worn off he realised that LSD had opened up new avenues in his mind. It was a revelation to him. As fame cut his physical freedom to roam where he chose, acid became a passport to extraordinary journeys of the mind. He could experience a mental freedom he'd never known before.
    "It's a false freedom," I tried to tell him, "It's not real," but he wouldn't listen to me.
    He'd always been a great reader and he'd read many books on artists who had liberated their minds with drugs. Now he saw the possibility of doing the same thing himself. He didn't want a normal life. He had a spark which had carried him a tremendous distance and he didn't want that spark to die. John had always been a determined person and that's what he wanted, that's where he was going and there was nothing I could do to stop him.
    He tried to persuade me to give LSD one more chance. I still loved John, I wanted to share my life with him, I wanted to understand what he was trying to tell me, so I agreed. This time I took the drug at home, surrounded by people we loved and we all took it together.
    It was just as bad as the first time. I still hated it. I still saw the same terrible visions. I still felt extremely out of control. When I came out of it, everyone was kissing each other and saying "Sister!" and "Brother!" and I thought: "I come from Hoylake. This doesn't do anything for me at all. This is not the real world and I don't want to be part of it."
    I knew then that John was taking his chosen road and I didn't want to go on that road with him. I would continue to love and support him as I always had done but for my own survival, I couldn't follow him. It was the breaking of a bond between us.
    Before my eyes he began to change. The clean-cut Beatle started to melt away. His hair grew longer and longer. The moustache went on, the granny glasses went on, the clothes became more and more outrageous.
    Yet underneath it all there remained some tiny part of him that was still John.
    And then one day, as we were walking towards the car to take us home from a meeting we'd attended in London, a small Japanese woman who'd also been present rushed up to us and asked us for a lift.
    Almost before we'd had time to reply she was in the car. John and I exchanged glances. I had no idea what was going on and from the look on his face I genuinely don't think John did. He shrugged. It wouldn't hurt to drop her off, we supposed.
    The car pulled away and I studied our guest as we accelerated through the London streets. Squashed silently in the corner, she was very tiny, her face was half hidden be a tremendous cloud of long dark hair and she was dressed entirely in black. She said not a word throughout the journey.
    John raised his eyebrows and I smiled back, silently imploring him to say nothing rude. We thought she was strange.
    Her name was Yoko Ono.

  • Cynthia Lennon in her own words Part 3

    It was a terrible day for a wedding. It was pouring with rain. Dismal clouds hung low over the city and grimy puddles were spreading across the pavements. Outside the registry office a gang of workmen were digging up the road with pneumatic drills.
    I hesitated as I climbed out of the car, sarching for a path between two greasy pools for my shiny new shoes. I don't know what kind of wedding I thought I might one day enjoy but it certainly wasn't this sort.
    At the door of the registry office three sombre figures were waving. It was John, Paul and George, looking nervous and uncomfortable in the only suits and ties they posessed - which happened to be black. They shouted a greeting but their words were lost in another machine-gun burst from the drills.
    Suddenly I wanted to giggle. Rain was dripping onto my hair, the boys looked more as if they were going to a funeral than a wedding. There was no photographer, no flowers and precious few guests. What a day!
    It was August 23, 1962 and, so far, 1962 wasn't turning out to be a good year for us.
    First, in April our dear friend Stuart Sutcliffe had tragically collapsed and died. Stuart was no longer a Beatle by than. He'd decided to give up music and stay behind in Hamburg to be with his German girlfriend Astrid.
    I think John was half hoping he'd change his mind but we all knew how much in love Stuart and Astrid were and, really, Stuart was more artist than musician. Astrid had made him a studio in the top room of her mother's house and he'd been accepted as a student by the art college in Hamburg. It looked then as if Stuart's future was secure.
    When John and the Beatles returned to Hamburg in April that year they were expecting Stuart to meet them at the airport for a riotous reunion. Instead, Astrid was waiting alone, pale and red-eyed with terrible news. Stuart had died two days before. He was just 21 years old.
    We couldn't believe it. We'd known that Stuart suffered from headaches, probably dating from the time he was attacked in Bootle with John, but we had no idea how ill he really was. Apparently, months earlier when the rest of the boys returned to Liverpool, Stuart had become more and more unwell. Finally on April 10 he'd collapsed as he worked at a canvas in the studio Astrid had created for him.
    He was rushed to hospital, Astrid cradling his head on her knee in the ambulance, but there was nothing they could do. He died later that day of a massive brain haemorrage.
    John was very, very upset. So was I. Life had already taught us that parents could die but now to loose someone our own age was very hard. For John, who cared deeply for Stuart, it was another kick in the teeth. Was he to loose everyone who mattered? I'm told that for a while afterwards he became more aggressive and crazy than ever. At home with me we clung together for comfort, wondering what would happen next.
    Compared with the tragedy of Stuart, the following misfortunes were trivial, but just as devastating to our lives. First I failed the exams for which I'd worked so long and so hard. Then, on the very same day the results arrived, I learned that I was pregnant.
    Phyllis' woman doctor was not sympathetic. In fact she gave me a rollocking.
    "You've been totally irresponsible Miss Powell," she snapped. "If you couldn't excercise self control at least you could have taken precautions."
    I was too shocked and confused to reply. What was the point of explaining I knew nothing of precautions. In those days Phyl and I were totally naive. We hadn't the first idea about contraception and only a hazy knowledge of how pregnancy occurred. We never gave it a thought.
    The horror was almost too great to take in. My mother was in Canada, John was away. I had no job, no money and I couldn't go back to college and re-sit my exam now. My dreams of becomming an art teacher were well and truly shattered.
    In a daze I plodded back to the waiting-room where Phyllis sat anxiously. She could see from my face that the news wasn't good. Quickly she guided me out onto the street.
    "I'm pregnant," I told her dully.
    Phyllie was shocked too. She didn't know what to say.
    "What are you going to do, Cyn?" she asked at last. "How will you manage?"
    I shrugged. "I don't know."
    For a while I tried to ignore the problem. The difficulties were almost too great to contemplate. I didn't look pregnant and, apart from the morning sickness, I didn't feel pregnant. I tried to pretend it wasn't happening. But no matter how I tried to squash them down, the rebellious thoughts kept resurfacing.
    How am I going to break it to John? How will he react? What if this wrecks his future? It would be so awful if this ruined his chances just at the moment the Beatles seemed to be going from strength to strength.
    The thoughts went round and round until I felt I'd go mad. Fortunately I didn't have too long to wait until John came home. There was no way I could give him such devastating news in a letter. It would have to be in person.
    A couple of weeks later John arrived. His jaunty footsteps came clattering up the stairs two at a time, then the door opened, and there he was with his Liverpool Echo, his cigarettes and a big packet of fish and chips. He looked so happy.
    He was obviously planning a romantic dinner and one of the cosy evenings we enjoyed so much. Just the two of us.
    Normally I would have run into his arms but now m dreadful news held me back. I didn't know how to put it, how to soften the blow.
    ""John," I said quickly, "I've been to the doctor with Phyl and I've been told I'm expecting."
    The smile faded from John's face. He stared at me as if waiting for the punch line, the reassurance that it was a bad joke. It didn't come and as the words sunk in I saw the colour literally drain from his cheeks. He went white. The next moment his arms were around me and he was hugging me tight.
    "Well, Cyn," he said, "we'll have to get married."
    We clung together silently for a long time. Then suddenly another thought struck.
    "Oh my God," said John, pulling away. "I must go and tell Mimi."
    This awesome task was even more worrying than the pregnancy itself. Predictably, Mimi hit the roof. She shouted and screamed at him. "You've ruined your life!" she yelled. "You've ruined your future. If you get married I won't come to the wedding. I'll have nothing to do with you. You're on your own!"
    John came back very upset and subdued. Our problems seemed enormous and insoluble. It felt as if the whole world was against us. We held each other tight like two babes in the wood. My mother was thousands of miles away. Where could we go from here?
    Fortunately, Brian Epstein came to our rescue. Brian, who worked in his father's record shop, had recently come into our lives. He must have been in his mid-twenties then, and though he was very good at his job he wanted something more. He'd dreamt of becoming an actor but hadn't quite made it and now he was looking for another outlet for his energy and imagination.
    Gradually he noticed that young people kept coming into his shop and asking for anything by this group he'd never heard of - the Beatles. Intrigued, he asked where they played and, told they were often to be found at the Cavern, he slipped away one lunchtime to watch them.
    I wasn't there that session but apparently Brian was overwhelmed by the music and the effect it had on the fans. He thought the boys were fantastic and potentially very exciting and although he'd never managed a pop group in his life, he decided there and then to sign them up.
    The boys were as impressed by Brian as he was by them. With his smart suit, neat hair and businesslike manner he seemed much older than them and not their type at all, but they were delighted that a proper businessman was actually interested in taking them on.
    As for me, I thought they were very lucky. I liked Brian immediately. He was an absolute gentleman. very thoughtful, caring and genuine. He had class.
    Soon he was inextricably part of our lives and, naturally, after breaking the news to Mimi, the next person John informed was Brian.
    "I don't know where to begin or what to do," John said at the end of the sorry tale. "We've got Cyn's room but..."
    "There's no way you and Cyn are going to stay in that room with a baby," Brian interrupted. "I've got a flat near the college. It's furnished and I hardly ever use it. You and Cyn can get married and move in there."
    He was incredibly sympathetic and he organised everything for us. He got a special licence so that we could get married quickly. He booked the registry office, laid on a car to collect me and he even arranged the wedding breakfast. All John had to do was buy the ring and turn up.
    I was relieved that everything was being sorted out but there was still one problem, one important person who muct be told. My mother.
    Mum had been saving up for a week's holiday in England so that she could spend time with me. By coincidence she arrived a couple of weeks before the wedding.
    I knew I'd have to tell her but I just couldn't find the courage. We spent a few days looking round the shops, having meals tgether and of course she came to visit my little bedsit. I'd swapped rooms since she left and was now installed in a slightly larger bedsit along the corridor. It was light and airy but Mum shook her head over the room's meagre furnishings.
    "Oh dear, this is terrible," she said glancing critically at the tatty curtains andcrumbling rug. "I'll go back to the salerooms and get you a decent carpet and some good pots and pans.
    Oh, crikey. I thought. Of course this would have been a good moment to tell her about Brian and the flat and the baby but a happy glint had come into Mum's eye at the prospect of another forage round the salerooms and I couldn't find the words to spoil her fun.
    A couple of days later she was back in triumph, accompanied by a van containing a beautiful Indian carpet in red with only a few holes in it, some matching lampshades, pots and pans and various odments of china.
    She set to work at once, rearranging everything, totally content. Under her deft fingers the little room was soon transformed and she sat back to look at it, very pleased with her handiwork.
    It was now or never. I knew that. She was going back to Canada the next day. "Mum," I began unhappily, "something terrible's happened. I've been to the doctors and I'm pregnant."
    She stared at me, unable to take in my words. "It's all right," I rushed on, "we're getting married. It's all arranged. Next week." 'The wedding was a bizarre affair. John, Paul and George were nervous and everytime the registrar asked John and me a question the pneumatic drill would start up again'
    Mum sat down heavily on the nearest chair. "Next week? I'll have to cancel my ticket."
    I shook my head. There was no point in her staying. The wedding was to be very small, a formality really. It didn't make sense to waste her expensive ticket.
    She didn't like it but in the end I persuaded her to go back to Canada as arranged. After all, she'd do much better to start saving for another visit when the baby arrived. Reluctantly she agreed and it wasn't long before a series of lumpy little parcels started arriving through the post. Mum's over enthusiasm, besides salerooms, was knitting.
    The wedding, as it turned out, was a bizarre affair. I'd done my best. I put up my hair in a french pleat, I bought a new suit in a fine purple and white check and I wore it with the white blouse that Astrid had given me all those months ago. I looked smart, if not bridal, as I splashed off through the rain to the car Brian had sent.
    It wasn't exactly a big do. Mimi of course was boycotting it so besides John, Paul and George there was only Brian, my brother Tony and his wife Marjorie.
    We've none of us been very good at ceremonies and the boys were nervous. They kept combing their hair and straightening their ties and shuffling their feet. The registrar was so solemn he looked as if he was presiding over a funeral and every time he asked John and me a question, the pneumatic drill would start up again, drowning our words. It happened so many times we began to get hysterical.
    During one ear-splitting blast John and I exchanged helpless glances. I could see the laughter in his eyes and I struggled to keep my face straight. Paul's shoulders were shaking, my brother Tony was fighting to get his expression under control and George turned away with a fit of pretend coughing.
    Somehow John managed to slip a gold band on my finger, the ceremony ended and then we were running outside to collapse in giggles. I daresay we didn't take it as seriously as we should have done but we were little more than children - and somehow it was very, very funny.
    Laughing and joking we went on to Reece's cafe, a popular shoppers' haunt where the waitresses had little white hats and pinnies and there was a set lunch of roast chicken with all the trimmings followed by fruit salad. There was no wine or alcohol of any kind so we toasted each other with water.
    After lunch, John and I went back to the bedsit to move my stuff over to Brian's flat. Then while I arranged our home, John dashed off to Mimi's to collect his things and pick up a few bits and pieces we needed. A couple of hours later he staggered back with a present for me. A coffee table with a top of beaten copper.
    We stood it in pride of place in the centre of out new sitting room
    Despite the circumstances of the wedding we were still in love and it was wonderful to be able to live together at last. Once he'd got over the shock John was even pleased about the baby. He couldn't get over the fact that he was going to be a father.
    Years later he said something in an interview which was to hurt me very much. He told Playboy magazine: "Julian was born out of a bottle of whisky on a Saturday night." John was with Yoko Ono then but I was still offended and so was Julian. It was so untrue. I could tell that John said it to impress the interviewer but it still hurt. For a start we didn't even drink whisky in those days but the worst part was the implied denial of our love. We were very much in love and very happy - Julian truly was a love child.
    But of course that was all in the future. At the time we settled down to married life.
    Brian's flat was in a rough part of town but inside it was lovely. We had a sitting room, kitchen, bathroom and bedroom. The only problem was that we shared the entrance hall with the flat upstairs, so I might walk out of the bedroom in my nightie one morning and meet someone coming downstairs. Still, at first it was only a tiny inconvenience. 'John was easy to please. His favourite meal at the time was Vesta Beef Curry followed by a banana sandwich and even I could manage that'
    John was a typical northern male of the time. He didn't do much about the house but then being a typical northern girl I didn't expect him to. I was happy enough battling with the washing and ironing and teaching myself to cook. I'm afraid I wasn't much good in the kitchen but fortunately John was easy to please. His favourite meal at the time was Vesta Beef Curry - a dehydrated powder to which you just added water - followed by a banana sandwich and even I could manage that.
    One evening, soon after the wedding, I was standing at the stove stirring yet another Vesta curry when John came in with a short, skinny young man whose small, square hands flashed oddly in the light. I peered closer and saw that he was wearing a ring on every finger - an unusual habit in Liverpool.
    "This is Ringo," said John. "He's going to be our drummer."
    Pete Best, theirr previous drummer, had recently left the group. Despite his good looks and skill on the drums he'd never really fitted in with the other boys. While John, Paul and George laughed and joked and swopped witty repartee, Pete sat silently on the edge, quiet, thoughtful and on a different wavelength altogether.
    Ringo in contrast wasn't handsome and at the time I didn't consider he was a brilliant drummer but they didn't need a brilliant drummer. They needed a good beat provided by someone compatible. Ringo was perfect. Very Scouse and down to earth, he was a natural clown and he made a great fall guy for the rest of them.
    "Hello, Ringo," I said, tearing my eyes away from the glittering rings and giving the curry another stir. I was a bit embarrassed about that curry. The portions weren't large, I didn't think I could stretch the meal to three and there was no other food in the house.
    Ringo was embarrassed too. He didn't know what to say to me. I was from Hoylake so he probably thought I was posh, and I was also John's wife so he didn't want to make a bad impression. He declined my offer of a sandwich and sat there politely with a cup of tea while John and I ate our meal. It was all a bit starchy and I don't think I was ever to see Ringo so subdued again.
    In fact Ringo joined the group at a very good time. They were now well known in Liverpool and getting plenty of gigs. John and Paul were writing a lot of songs and Brian hawked their work round a few record companies. Eventually they ended up with producer George Martin.
    "They're not brilliant," George told Brian, "but we can do something with them."
    It wasn't long before John was racing home clutching their first single Love Me Do. Excitedly we put it on the record player and sat down to listen to it. I was surprised to hear a very different kind og Beatles to the Beatles I'd heard in Hamburg. This was a commercial sound and to be honest I'd heard them play better but it didn't matter. They had a recording contract, their record was climbing the charts and it was so exciting.
    Soon afterwards the record was on the radio. We couldn't believe it. To hear the music coming out of the radio instead of the Cavern, to know that it was being listened to all over the country was almost too thrilling to take in. We hugged each other in elation. John had always wanted to be famous and now it really looked as if he might get his wish.
    Love Me Do reached number 17 in the charts and to capitalise on its success the boys began to tour endlessly. John was often away, arriving home from time to time with suitcases full of shirts for me to wash and iron.
    The most difficult part as far as I was concerned was that John had to pretend he wasn't married. It was thought that the fans might react badly to a married pop star and since we didn't want to kill off a promising career before it started, Brian explained we must pretend John was single.
    I wasn't hurt. After all I'd done everything I could to help John in the past, from holding microphones on broomsticks at early gigs to noting down song lyrics from records to pad out their Hamburg sessions. I wasn't about to change now. But it wasn't easy. The Liverpool fans were very canny and they remembered me from the Cavern. 'The more pregnant I looked, the more curious my questioners became. After all, if I really was an ordinary expectant housewife, where was my husband?'
    I'd be walking down the street with my shopping bag, obviously pregnant and before I'd gone very far some young girl would stop me. "Are you married to John?" she'd ask eyeing my bulge suspiciously. "Are you having a baby?"
    "I think yo've got the wrong person," I'd reply, trying to hurry past.
    But the fans were persistant: "You're Cynthia, aren't you?"
    "Never heard of her," I'd lie, before fleeing into the nearest shop.
    I disguised the pregnancy for as long as I could. John had bought me a beautiful leather waistcoat from Germany which I was able to expand and expand but in the end it couldn't cover my bump and the more pregnant I looked, the more curious my questioners became. After all, if I really was an ordinary expectant housewife, where was my husband?
    I hardly liked to bother John with these troubles on the rare occasions he did get home. Those moments were too precious to waste. Please Please Me and I Want To Hold Your Hand followed Love Me Do in quick succession and the excitement and clamour for the Beatles' music was tremendous. The boys were working almost non-stop.
    Unknown to us then it was reaching the stage where we would be able to go out together in the streets, but one of the last ordinary trips we made was to Aunt Mimi's house.
    I can't bear animosity between families and one bright sunny day when John was home I said suddenly, "Why don't we go to see Mimi? Let's make it up."
    John wasn't keen. He wanted to see his aunt but he was still angry that she hadn't come to the wedding or supported him when he needed it. Nevertheless I managed to persuade him and we jumped on the bus to Mimi's semi.
    We were a little nervous. After all, she might still reject us. But when she answered the door Mimi was clearly delighted. She opened her arms wide and invited us in as if nothing had happened. Soon the inevitable eggs, bacon and chips were spluttering on the stove and John and I were walking round the pretty garden.
    John had forgotten his former doubts and he looked really happy and relaxed.
    "Isn't it lovely here," he said strolling across the neat lawn. "Our flat's nice," he explained over his shoulder to Mimi who'd joined us, "but it's rough round there and there's no garden."
    "Well why don't you come and live with me?" said Mimi, seizing the opportunity.
    I was horrified. Mimi meant well but she wasn't an easy woman.
    "This house is too big for me now," she went on. "I could make the top floor into a self-contained flat and you two could have the ground floor and the garden."
    I began searching for some tactful response but John cut in. he thought it was a wonderful idea.
    "Yes, Cyn. I don't like to think of you in that flat by yourself - especially when you nearly lost the baby."
    I couldn't argue. A few weeks before, the doctor had sent me to bed for three days to avoid a threatened miscarriage. John, who'd been on the road at the time, was very worried. He didn't think I should be on my own.
    By the end of the afternoon the decision was made and shortly afterwards my belongings were on the move again to Mimi's house. As I'd guessed, it wasn't easy. It was months before Mimi finally got round to creating her upstairs flat and, in the meantime, we got under each other's feet.
    When John was there Mimi was fine but when he was away she could be moody and sharp-tongued and in my over-sensitive pregnant state I frequently retired hurt. Admittedly on good days she helped me with my cooking and taught me to make apple pie but, on balance, it wasn't a happy arrangement.
    Oddly, as it turned out, it was Phyl and not Mimi who was on hand to help when the labour started.
    It was a bright Saturday early in April 1963 and Phyl wanted to go shopping. I was feeling a little strange as if something might happen, but the doctor had told me I probably had another two weeks to go so I thought it would be all right.
    Anyway we took the bus to Penny Lane - which was a suburban centre lined with small shops and the odd boutique as we called them then. We mooched about lloking at baby clothes and giggling over the fashion garments that were impossibly small for me in my pregnant state. Phyl was just trying on a pair of shoes when I started getting these terrible stomach pains. They went off quite quickly but a few minutes later, there they were again.
    "Phyl, I think we'd better get back to Mimi's," I said when I could catch my breath. "I think something might be happening."
    Back in my room we didn't know what to do for the best. The pains would go off for a while and then when I least expected it they'd come back.
    "I think I'd better stay the night," Phyl said kindly. "Just in case."
    The evening passed and we went to bed but by two in the morning the pains were back with a vengeance. By now it was unbearable.
    "You'll have to phone an ambulance, Phyl," I gasped.
    Phyl began to panic. She was running around in her nightie, hair full of rollers, looking for the phone.
    "What's the number? What's the number?" she called, fingers scrabbling with the dial. "Oh, yes. 999."
    I heard her spelling out Mimi's address and soon afterwards the ambulance arrived. I picked up m pre-packed bag, Phyl dragged on her dressing gown and off we went in the ambulance without a glimpse of Mimi the whole time. She didn't emerge from upstairs. Perhaps she slept through the whole thing.
    At the hospital I was put in a wheelchair and whisked off to the maternity ward but Phyl was stopped at the door.
    "Come back at visiting time," she was told firmly.
    Poor Phyl. It was three in the morning and there she was in her rollers, dressing gown and slippers with not a penny in her pocket and no means of getting home.
    "Can I go back in the ambulance?" she asked.
    "No way," they told her, scandalised. "The ambulnce isn't for ferrying people around."
    So Phyl had to walk out into the Liverpool night and try to flag down a taxi. Dozens ignored her, looking as she did like an escapee from a mental home, but eventually one sympathetic cabbie picked her up and allowed her to owe him the fare.
    Up in the ward I'd embarked on a long, long labour. I was put next to another girl who was also having a difficult time. We were both given gas and air which made me groggy but caused her to flip completely.
    Suddenly I heard her say, "I'm going home to mother." There was a rustling from her bed. "I can't stand it," she added, "I'm going..." and then this bulky thing in a white nightie rushed past me and disappeared down the ward. I think they had quite a job getting her back.
    Julian was finally born at 6 am on Monday April 8. It was a harsh experience. By then I was so exhausted I didn't think I could go on.
    "If you don't push harder your baby will die," they tld me brutally.
    I did the best I could but Julian finally came into the world with the aid of forceps.
    He was 6lb 8oz and absolultely gorgeous. I was completely besotted. I couldn't get over the size of his little hands. Such miniature perfection was breathtaking. The only minor blemish was a mole on his head with hair growing out of it. Being a typical first time mum I was embarrassed by this. I kept him in bonnets for a long time until his hair grew and covered it completely.
    It was three days before John was able to visit his son. He'd been phoning Mimi's every night to see how I was and she'd given him the good news. Flowers arrived but for three days I had to sit there on my own watching the other proud dads coming in, until the Beatles' tour came close enough to allow John a fleeting trip to Liverpool. I understood, of course, but at times I couldn't help feeling a pang.
    But on the third day it was all forgotten when the ward doors burst open and in swept John, black peaked cap pulled down over one eye, leather coat flying. Everyone stared and John stared back.
    "You're going to have a private room," he said giving me a hug. Then he looked at the babyand he was over the moon. He couldn't get over the fact that this tiny little creature was his son. He picked him up in awkward hands and stared down into the impassive little face. It was a miracle.
    We'd already decided that if the baby was a girl she would be called Julia after John's late mother. A boy was to be John Charles (after my father) Julian. In the end two Johns proved confusing, my eldest brother was already Charles, so the baby became Julian.
    Brian presented us with the most beautiful Silver Cross pram - a real classy affair in pale grey - the sort you saw nannies pushing around Hyde Park. I'd bought a carry cot and a crib, Mum had knitted endless woollies and Mimi had contributed the non-woolen outfits. So, despite his unplanned start, Julian arrived well provided for.
    A week after his birth, I took him home to learn how to be a mother and John went on holiday to Spain.
    Over the years this holiday has been misinterpreted as proof that John didn't care, but in fact it wasn't like that at all. John had been working incredibly hard. he hadn't had a break since Hamburg and was exhausted.
    "Cyn, I'm absoloutely knackered," he told me. "Brian's going off on holiday to Spain for a week. Would you mind if I went with him? If you don't want me to I won't go."
    What could I say? I truly didn't mind. I was worn out myself after the birth and knew I would be too busy getting settled in with the baby to have much time for John. I was breast-feeding so there was nothing he could do. A quiet spell during which I could sort myself out uninterrupted seemed like a good idea. So I said yes, Johnwent off to Spain and he came back a week later, refreshed, very happy and everything was fine.
    And in fact I didn't have too long to wait for a wonderful break of my own. As the months passed, Julian began to sleep through the night and he graduated to a bottle so, if necessary, someone else could take care of him.
    "First break I get we'll ave our honeymoon," John promised.
    The Beatles were doing really well now so the problem wasn't finding the money, it was finding the time. Eventually there was a gap in their engagements. Mum, who'd returned from Canada, babysat Julian, and John whisked me away for a long weekend in Paris.
    It was absoloutely wonderful - sheer joy for both of us. A limousine drve us smoothly to the airport. Another limousine whispered us to the elegant George V hotel and we were escorted to a beautiful suite with a marble bath complete with gold taps - a luxury I'd never come across before. Downstairs we ate the finest foods on the menu and afterwards we wandered the romantic streets of Paris hand in hand.
    John had money to spend and he wanted to spend it on me. He bought me a chic grey coat, a white fur hat, a leather skirt and Chanel No 5. We went to the Louvre, we went to Montmartre, we walked along the ambankment. It was magical.
    Then one day we got back to the hotel and found a message for us from Astrid. We hadn't seen her since that terrible time when Stuart died but now by coincidence she was staying with a girlfriend in a Paris bedsit.
    Delighted to hear from our old friend we arranged a meeting and the four of us went out on the town. It was just like the old days in Hamburg. We stayed up all night in the meat market in Montmartre, chattering, laughing and having a fantastic time.
    Then we rolled back to Astrid's room and consumed more plonk until at last, the four of us fell exhausted into bed together. It was totally non sexual. We were so far gone we just flaked out on the bed. John on the outside, the three women in the middle, and slept for hours.
    It was to be the last time I saw Astrid for many years and it made a wonderful end to our honeymoon.
    On the way home, cuddled up together in the back of the chauffer-driven limousine, John and I discussed our future.
    "I think," said John, "It's time we moved down south and got a place of our own."

  • Across the Universe movie trailer

    http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ru3M_f2RZCY

    Un musical que trata sobre un romance ficticio en los 60. Lo interesante es que todo el soundtrack es de canciones de los Beatles.

    El release date en los Estados Unidos todavía no está confirmado. Espero que no pase como con US vs. John Lennon que nunca llegó a Puerto Rico.

  • Cynthia Lennon in her own words Part 2

    It was 6 o'clock in the morning when the boat train pulled into Hamburg. The vast, echoing station was half deserted in the dawn light and my friend Dot and I staggered out on to freign soil, giddy and bewildered from lack of sleep. We couldn't understand the German announcements or the written signs but, clutching our suitcases, we started to walk uncertainly up the platform.
    Suddenly, above the clanking trollies and rumbling engines, came a commotion of Liverpool voices. The next minute four crazy figures in black leather jackets and blue jeans burst round the corner and came leaping down the platform towards us. It was John, Paul, George and Stuart Sutcliffe just released from their all-night rock'n'roll stint in a local club, drunk as skunks, but nice drunk.
    They surrounded us, giggling, screaming and jumping about like excited kids on the last day of term. John gave me a great hug, Paul embraced Dot who was his girlfriend at the time, then they seized our suitcases and swept us away for a massive fry-up breakfast at the Sailor's Mission.
    I held John's hand very tightly. I couldn't stop smiling, neither could he. It was so good to see him again. Though we wrote to each other every day - John's letters to me were emblazoned on the back of the instructions: "Postman postman don't be slow. Go to Cyn man, go man go..." - letters were no substitute for actually being together.
    Somehow, improbable though it might seem, we were madly in love. I was still not exactly sure how it happened. I mean the first time John asked me out I turned him down. We were complete opposites. I was hard-working, dedicated to my college course and determined to pass my exams and qualify as an art teacher. John, on the other hand, was rebellious, sarcastic and couldn't care less about his studies. yet when we returned to art college after the end of term party at which I'd rejected him, the attraction between us was stronger than ever.
    Gradually we found we were spending more and more time together. At lunchtimes when a group of us wandered down to The Crack for a Black velvet (Guiness and cider) John ended up by my side and after college we often went for a coffee. Soon we were sitting for two hours over a single coffee in a transparent cup, gazing into each other's eyes and talking intensely.
    I discovered that on his own, away from the cronies to whom he was always trying to prove himself, there was another John lennon. He was full of pain, full of anger. His father had gone off to sea years ago and his mother, unable to cope, had left young John with her older childless siter, Mimi. Though Mimi had done her best and was devoted to John, he still felt deserted. Then, when he was 17, just as he was getting to know his mother again, she was run over and killed by an off-duty policeman right outside Auntie Mim's house. In a way he'd lost his mother twice.
    At the time I was too young to understand the psychological impact this must have had on John but I was dimly aware that his unhappy past explained a lot. I'd noticed John's main talent was as a cartoonist. Even as a boy he'd filled excercise books with pages and pages of cartoons, but they were all grotesque, distorted versions of human beings. He drew distorted people just for the fun of it, because I think he was distorted inside. He didn't want people to pity him so he made them laugh instead.
    As I say, I didn't understand a lot of this at the time but one thing I did know about was the agony of loosing a parent at 17. I still missed my father desperately and in a strange way I felt abandonned, too. It was another bond between us.
    In a very short time I knew that John was special. The physical attraction between us was so strong that we were in each other's pockets the whole time. We skipped class and went to the pictures and sat in the back row not watching the film, or else we'd skip off college again and get the ferry to new Brighton and sit on the sand dunes. Later we'd go to this coffee bar at the top of Bow Street and hold hands for hours.
    At weekends I caught the train back to Liverpool for more dates with John. he was always late, of course. I used to wait for him at Liverpool Central station and I'd stand there all dressed up and waiting and he'd be 15 minutes or half an hour late and the first thing he'd say was. "Have you got any money for ciggies?" yet I couldn't be cross. I was so glad to see him.
    John made me laugh but he also embarrassed me to the bottom of my boots. On top of the bus if we happened to be sitting behind a man with a bald head John would lean forward and very gently tickle the bare scalp with his finger. The poor victim would keep brushing his head, thinking it was a stray hair, until I was in an agony of suppressed giggles and horror combined. I didn't know where to look.
    Then on leaving the bus John would asopt an exaggerated limp, or pecuilar gait, and parade up the pavement for the entertainment of the rest of the passengers looking out of the window.
    I loved John dearly but sometimes I thought he was completely crazy. He had to have an audience, any audience to make up for all the love he felt he'd lost. yet despite this we seemed to complement each other. I think I had a calm about me that he needed, while for me his madness was stimulating. Oddly enough in those days there must have been some physical similarity between us too, because people kept mistaking us for brother and sister. Or maybe it was justthe glazed expressions we both wore through walking around so short-sighted!
    In love with John I was completely happy, but my best friend Phyllis was appalled. I didn't see quite so much of Phyl these days. Her mother had died and Phyl had had to leave college and go out to work to help support the family. We still kept in touch, but sporadically just then, and by the time Phyll heard about my relationship with John there was no turning back.
    She was horrified. "He's no good for you, Cyn," she warned me. "He's trouble."
    But by then it was too late. I was in love.
    She was right of course. Deep down I knew it. I knew my dad wouldn't have been happy about John. I knew Dad would have advised me against him and perhaps I would have listened. But Dad wasn't there and Mum was still too weighed down by her own grief to guide me. So I plunged right in and went for broke.
    Mum for her part was very understanding. If I cared she wasn't going to spoil things. If I was happy that was good enough for her. Yet she was worried, too. Much as she tried to like John for my sake she couldn't see any prospects for him. What future we could possibly have together she just couldn't imagine.
    Nevertheless, since it looked as if things were serious between us, a formal meeting had to be arranged between the two guardians. One afternoon John and Mimi came to tea.
    It wasn't an easy occasion. Mum and I cleaned the house and tinned salmon sandwiches and cake were laid out in the front room. John arrived all dressed up and on his best behaviour with a thin, smart woman with strong, fine-boned features very like his own. Auntie Mimi was polite but frosty and we all sat round the table and discussed the weather.
    She couldn't say so of course, but Aunti Mimi didn't like the situation at all. She was very posessive of John and jealous of anything that threatened to take him away from her. His friends were bad enough but a girl was even worse. It was a stiff, difficult afternoon which none of us enjoyed but the formalities had been observed. The two families had been introduced.
    All this time as I struggled to make a success of my course despite the diversion of John, he was more involved in his music than the artwork. At lunchtime two of his friends from the school next door - young Paul McCartney and an even younger george Harrison - often came to the college to practice.
    We'd go out and get hot, salty packets of scallops and chips and take them back to the college stage which happened to be in the canteen. Ignoring the other students sitting at the tables we climbed through the curtains and sat there in privacy eating our lunch while the boys practiced their chords and harmonies. Even then, just chinking away at their favourite Buddy Holly numbers, I thought they were great. Immature and amateur though they were, their singing sent tingles up my spine.
    In those days Paul and George seemed very skinny, quiet and young. I was the eldest, followed by John, a year younger than me, then Paul and finally George who was probably only 15 or 16 at the time and a real schoolboy in my eyes. yet despite the difference in their ages they all got on very well together.
    Like John and I, Paul had also lost a parent. His mother had died when he was quite young and he missed her terribly. Yet he didn't seem to have the chip on his shoulder that John had acquired.
    'Whenever we visited Paul's house his dad Jim McCartney would be there with his pinny on, cooking eggs, bacon, chips and beans, and we'd always be fed'
    Paul lived with his brother and his father Jim who was a lovely man. Whenever we visited Paul's house Jim McCartney would be there with his pinny on, cooking eggs, bacon, chips and beans - the standard fare in a Liverpool household in those days - and we'd always be fed.
    Jim was a pianist and he'd played in a jazz band years before, so there was a lot of support and succour in Paul's home. John on the other hand was banned from practising his guitar in Mimi's house - if he must play he had to do it in the little square porch. Fortunately he said the acoustics were fabulous.
    As for George he had a complete, loving family behind him, so he escaped the traumas the rest of us had been through.
    In those days there werefrequent meetings and practice sessions. Sometimes we'd go to John's stepfather's house when he wasn't home, climbing in through the downstairs bathroom window which John knew he always left open, we'd then make our way to the sitting room, There the boys would feed records into the record player and attempt to play along to the music.
    I was always terrified of getting caught but the boys seemed quite unworried. As far as John was concerned the only drawback was that there was never any food in the fridge and, like typical students, we were always starving.
    As well as private practice sessions they also played in public at every opportunity. There were a number of coffee bars and clubs in the area and they talked their way into them whenever they could. The Jacaranda, which was a downstairs coffee bar, was a frequent haunt. I was often dragged along to hold a microphone attached to a broomstick for them because the club had no proper mikes.
    Later of course came the Cavern. The Cavern was in Mathew Street, a cobbled back ally full of warehouses, lorries and litter. The entrance was tiny and you'd go down these narrow, uneven steps into a dim cellar smelling of damp and sweat. Water dripped from the ceiling and ran down the walls and the only light came from a few dull red bulbs.
    It wasn't exactly a healthy place but when the music got going the atmosphere was electrifying. I'd never seen anything like it. Girls would scream and rush to the front and I was always a bit nervous of going to the ladies because those Liverpool girls could be very tough, especially if they realised I was going out with John.
    Ever since he was at school John had played in a vareity of groups with various different friends but Paul and Paul's friend George had remained constant. At one point before I started going out with John they were part of a group called the Quarrymen.
    Anyway, after a while John thought it would be nice to have his great college friend Stuart Sutcliffe join the fun. The fact that Stuart couldn't play a guitar didn't bother him at all.
    John admired Stuart. We all did. He was the most brilliant student in the college. He was only a tiddler - small, thin and spotty with glasses and floppy dark hair - but he had this tremendous energy and intensity about his art. He could do everything: painting, drawing, lifework - whatever he tried was fantastic. He really was the star of the place.
    At the end of the day the students would wander round the classes to see what everyone else was doing and you'd always find Stuart painting busily at some wonderful canvas. John was genuinely impressed with Stuart, and Stuart was impressed with John. So much so that when everyone else had gone home John would stay behind to learn everything Stuart could teach him.
    At the time, John's work was on a very small scale - little drawings and cartoons - but he was interested in progressing to something bigger. Stuart showed him what paints to use, what kind of mixtures to try and soon John was having a wonderful time, splashing bold colours across his canvas, throwing sand at it - trying out all sorts of experiments that he would have been too cautious to try in front of anyone else.
    That was the strange thing about John. he was such a great exhibitionist yet he was quite timid in other ways and nervous of being rejected. Stuart's one man "class" was the perfect education for him. Here with no one watching, no one to entertain and no one to criticise. John could relax and learn.
    I used to sit and watch them, fascinated but too happy in my chosen field of illustration to want to join in. Then, when they'd finished, we'd go for a drink or a coffee and then John would take me to the station to catch my train back to Hoylake.
    Stuart was such a wonderful artist that nobody could understand why he would want to take up music, but John liked to have his friends around him and he could be very persuasive. Besides, the music scene was blossoming and it was an exciting, exhilerating time to be involved. Stuart had been working so intensely and so long at his art perhaps he needed a break. Anyway, whatever the reason, he won an art prize and to the horror no doubt of the lecturers, used his £50 prize money to buy a bass guitar.
    Now it was John's turn to become unofficial tutor. Laboriously he drilled Stuart in the basic chords and, after many blistered fingers, Stuart eventually learned to play. But I don't think he was a "natural". He was so embarrassed by his lack of skill that whenever he performed he kept his back to the audience so they couldn't see his hands on the bass.
    It was around this time there came an incident we dismissed at the time but were to remember long afterwards.
    John came to meet me one day with his finger all swollen and bruised and his wrist painful. He didn't want to tell me about it and knowing how aggressive he could be, I thought he'd been fighting. Gradually I got the story out of him. Apparently the previous night he and Stuart had been outside a pub in Bootle when a gang of yobbos had started picking on Stuart. They knocked him to the ground and started kicking his head in. John dived to Stuart's defence and got his finger broken in the process.
    They were both bruised and shaken but the next day Stuart seemed okay. It wasn't until months afterwards that he started to suffer from ominous headaches...
    Fortunately, just then of course we had no way of knowing how serious it would turn out to be. Life was so exciting, something new seemed to happen every day and we were having so much fun living for the moment.
    John and I were very much in love. At Christmas he made me a beautiful card which he'd illustrated with a couple of little sketches of the two of us together. Beside the drawings were several pages of his chaotic handwriting: "I love you, I love you, I love you... I love you like mad... I love you like guitars... I love you like anything lovely... I love you forever and ever... I adore you, I want you, I need you..." And, touchingly, one whole page was devoted to the plea: "I love you so please don't leave me. I love you so don't leave me, leave me, leave me. Don't leave me. I love you, please don't go away..."
    I knew he loved me, yet despite this even in those days John was a flirt. He couldn't resist chatting up other girls - usually blondes. I got so annoyed over one minor flirtation with a Brigitte Bardot-type that I finished with him. I don't think John could believe it. It was unheard of and it nearly killed me to do it but I stuck to my decision. I went home and refused to go out with him again.
    I wasn't happy but I tried to forget John. I even went out with someone else. There was a boy I used to see at the station in Hoylake, a trainee dentist, and he had a crush on me. I didn't know him very well but he used to wait for my train and follow me home. Anyway, he plucked up courage to ask for a date just after I finished with John. This was the boost my confidence needed. I had to rebuild my life, didn't I? I accepted.
    We went out for the evening and he was very nice but it was no use. He wasn't John. "It's no good," I thought sadly as I shut the front door behind him. "I'm not interested in anyone else." It wouldn't have been fair to see him again.
    Three miserable, lonely weeks went by, then late one night John phoned. He was in a call box and he sounded upset. He loved me, he missed me and he wanted me back.
    My depression vanished like fog in the sun. I didn't need any persuading. I'd missed him as much as he missed me. I drifted off to bed that night, the happiest girl in the world. But I never did tell John about the other boy even years afterwards. I didn't dare. No matter what he got up to, he would have been furious.
    Things got even better as far as we were concerned when I was 19 and moved into my own bedsit - unheard of freedom in those days. My cousin who'd emigrated to Canada had a baby and since she and her husband were both working, they invited Mum to come and join them as a nanny.
    Mum was desperately in need of a change of scene and she wanted to go. The only thing holding her back was me.
    "Pleas do go Mum," I begged her. "It's just what you need and I'll be fine. I can look after myself."
    So eventually Mum went to Canada and I took a bedsit in a terraced house in Liverpool. It was just one small room with a Baby-Belling cooker and a bathroom next door where you put a shilling in the meter for hot water that came out orange-brown with rust.
    It was a shabby little place, really, but it was my first nest and I loved it. So did John. We played house, cooking little meals on the tiny stove or bringing in fish and chip suppers. best of all, we had the freedom at last to sleep together whenever we wanted.
    It never occured to me that I might get pregnant. We were incredibly naive in those days, we knew nothing of taking precautions, and pregnancy never entered my head. We allowed ourselves to be swept along by passion with never a thought for the consequences. Miraculously, for a long time, we got away with it.
    All this time John was becomming more and more absorbed in his music. The boys needed a good name and one evening we were all sitting round trying to think of one. Buddy Holly had his Crickets and obviously continuing the insect theme Stuart suggested beetles, only swapping the second "e" for an "a" so that it was a little play on the word "best". The Beatles. They liked it but, for some reason, went on to embelish the name further by calling themselves The Silver Beatles, It was a bit cumbersome though and soon the word "silver" was dropped. The group became simply: The Beatles. 'I lived for the postman and those lovely letters and although I know now that John got up to all sorts of things in Hamburg, at the time I had no idea'
    I'd always thought they were wonderful but they were improving all the time and Allan Williams, who owned the Jacaranda and had connections in Hamburg, asked if they'd like to go and play in a nightclub there. There was very little money involved but the boys jumped at the chance. They'd never been abroad before and they knew the experiance would be good for them. There was only one problem. They were short of a drummer and they couldn't go without one.
    At the last minute they were introduced to pete Best, whose mother owned yet another of the fashionable coffee bars. Pete, although rather quiet, was a skilled rummer with dark, brooding good looks. To everyone's relief, he agreed to go.
    I was very sad to see John leave. As I waved him off in the van that was to transport the boys and their equipment overland to Germany I couldn't help wiping away a few tears. I knew I'd miss him dreadfully and I was worried that he might meet someone else but, at the same time, I was glad for him. This was a wonderful opportunity and I didn't want to hold him back. Besides, I was going to be very busy. I was in my last year at college and a few weeks away from John would give me time to catch up on all the work I'd missed.
    There was also John's work. The college had allowed him to finish his lettering for the exam in his own time. But typical John, instead of doing it himself, he tossed it over to me to complete in his absence. I was in despair when I saw it. The paper was tatty at the edges and screwed up, there were blobs here and blobs there. It was absoloutely ruined.
    I spent hours and hours trying to make something of it but it was no use. For all my improvements John still failed. But he had more tasks in mind for me. Soon, along with his daily love letters came urgent requests for more songs. The group was playing all night in Hamburg, working such long hours that they were burning up their material at a tremendous rate.
    "Could you send me the words to Ketty Lesters' Love Letters?" John would implore one week. The next is was smething by Sam Cooke. So I'd end up buying all these discs and playing them over and over again and slowing them down so that I could catch every single word and copy it out for John. It took hours but I didn't mind. I loved the music and I loved to help.
    And through it all I was happy enough. I lived for the postman and those lovely letters and although I know now that John got up to all sorts of things in Hamburg, at the time I had no idea. I was secure in his love for me and naively assumed that loving me the way that he did, he wouldn't look at anyone else.
    'John came home bearing a beautiful leather coat for me, and a cooked chicken for Mimi - a gift which didn't go down well at all with his aunt who felt the presents should be reversed'
    That trip to Hamburg was to be the first of many. John came home full of love and bearing a beautiful leather coat for me and a cooked chicken for Mimi - a gift which didn't go down at all well with his aunt who felt that the presents should have been reversed. In an angry exchange she accused me of being a "gangster's moll". He also came home to a letter from college telling him not to bother to return since his mind was obviously not on his studies. John just shrugged. What did he care? Soon he'd be back in Hamburg and next time perhaps I could come out and join him.
    At this time Paul had a girlfriend called Dot who'd got a bedsit in the same house as me. Dot worked in the chemist's nearby. She was a tiny little thing with a very pretty, pixie face, short blonde hair and huge puppy-dog eyes and we'd become good friends. Anyway as the plans for my Hamburg trip progressed, it was decided that Dot would come, too.
    John and the boys went on ahead and as soon as my Easter holidays from college came round, Dot and I set off in high excitement for Germany. We'd never been abroad before and Paul's father, dear Jim McCartney, was so worried to think of two such young girls travelling alone that he insisted on taking us to London and putting us on the boat train himself.
    It seemed a very long journey through the night and I remember little of it except this endless string of foreign stations where trollies of food stood tentalisingly on the platform. Yet, starving as we were, Dot and I didn't dare get off to buy something in case the train pulled out and left us behind. Needless to say we were very, very hungry by the time we got to Hamburg and that breakfast at the Sailor's Mission was extremely welcome.
    John and I couldn't stop hugging. He was very loving and the aggression that was normally so near the surface seemed to have faded. He'd grown up a bit and gained self-confidence. The Beatles were doing well. They were achieving a good sound, they'd moved to a better club, The Top Ten, and even their sleeping quarters had improved. At first they'd been allocated an appalling, windowless room behind a cinema screen. Now they'd progressed to a larger place complete with six bunk beds. It wasn't exactly luxury but it was a lot better.
    Dot and I gulped down our eggs, chips, tomatoes and toast listening admiringly to the German words the four of them had picked up and their exciting tales of the tough world of the Reeperbahn. After breakfast we went off to see our accomodation. For some reason Paul had found Dot a houseboat, while John thought it would be nice for me to stay with their new German student friend, Astrid Kircherr.
    I was very curious about this Astrid. She'd cropped up again and again in John's letters home. Everything was Astrid this and Astrid that. Astrid was taking wonderful photographs of them, strid had such good taste - until I'd become quite jealous.
    Anyway, we strolled back to the Top Ten club and as we arrived outside, a little Volkswagen pulled up beside us and a beautiful girl got out. Slim and graceful she had very short blonde hair, perfect features and her clothes were sleek and elegant. I studied them discreetly. Astrid dressed with deceptive simplicity. She wore a black leather coat, tight blue jeans and white tee-shirt, yet somehow, on her they looked special. I was impressed and when Astrid spoke the effect was even more charming. She spoke English with a German accent to which had been added a twang of Liverpool. She was very sweet, she was always laughing and smiling and within minutes I forgot my fleeting jealousy. I liked her.
    John and I squeezed into the Volkswagen and Astrid sped us back through the busy streets to the large red-brick house where she lived.
    Now I was even more impressed. Astrid's parents were obviously wealthy. The house was very grand with big windows, chandeliers and antique furniture and Astrid had the top floor to herself while her mother lived downstairs.
    Slightly dazed I followed Astrid up the broad stairs to the bedroom she'd set aside for me. I dumped my case on the bed and turned as she flung open another door.
    "I expect you'd like a bath after your journey," she said. Over her shoulder I caught sight of the biggest bath-tub I'd ever seen and, before I could answer, Astrid was turning on the taps and splashing a strange green gel into the water. Suddenly the room was filled with the most lovely scent, quite unlike anything I'd ever come across before. I'd never heard of bath oil. Such pampering and luxury was quite outside my experience.
    Minutes later, I lowered myself happily into the silky, sweet-smelling water, wondering if perhaps I was asleep and dreaming. From my tiny bedsit in Liverpool to this elegant German house was almost too great a contrast to take in.
    The whole holiday was wonderful. Our feelings were running very high. We were emotional and intensely happy. By day John showed me the sights of Hamburg - including the streets where women don't usually go because they're full of prostitutes selling their wares from shop windows. I went around with my eyes and mouth wide open in astonishment.
    We went to the fair, Astrid took us to the beach in her car... There was a lot of fun and lunacy and silly dancing round the streets.
    In the evenings, Astrid and I would dolly up and go to watch the boys play. I'd particularly admired a beautiful frilly white cotton blouse of Astrid's and she insisted on lending it to me. "You must wear it," she said. So I put on the white blouse with my black velvet trousers and at about ten o'clock we'd met Dot and set off for the club.
    A table had been reserved just for us and this very tough braman/bouncer had been instructed to act as our minder. If any drunken sailors came over or anyone attempted to mess with us, the barman would come straight over and push them away.
    I was fascinated to see how the Beatles were improving. Chivvied on by the club boss: "Mak shau! Mak shau!" (Make show, make show) every time a break went on too long, they pushed themselves to the limit to play for eight hours at a stretch. Under pressure they'd become more professional and they were achieving a fabulous effect. Even though they hadn't yet progressed to using their own songs they were producing a sound that was special and unique.
    John had always been a bit self-conscious about his voice before. He didn't think he was a wonderful singer but now you could tell that the group wouldn't have been the same without it.
    Nevertheless, exciting though those evenings were, I doubt whether we'd have been able to stay awake all night every night without a little help. We managed to get hold of some Preludin - speed - so there we were sipping beer and as the night wore on we'd take half a "prely" to keep us going. Soon my heart would be racing and I'd feel giddy and hyped-up and silly.
    Mind you, on one occasion the combined "prelys" and booze had a dramatic effect. I woke up next morning to find that the zig-zag wallpaper in my room was zig-zagging about in an alarming manner, every line dancing independently of the line next to it. And everything else I looked at seemed to be moving. I felt terrible and it took all day for things to settle down. I gave up the prelys after that.
    But this was my only unpleasant experience. Everything else was magical. My earlier faint jealousy of Astrid had melted away. It was Stuart she was interested in, not John. Stuart and Astrid were quite clearly madly in love. Stuart was so besotted he'd even let Astrid cut his hair into a strange pudding basin shape with a fringe. The others fell about laughing when they saw it and teased him unmercifully. But it wasn't long before they were all adopting the same hairstyle. It was to become their trademark.
    Under her influence they'd also taken to wearing moody black. I thought it suited John. He looked great. But then I was in love and it wouldn't have mattered how he looked.
    The days raced by and soon it was time for Dot and I to go home. There were more tears as I said goodbye to John and I was also sad to leave Hamburg. I'd fallen in love with the place. I loved its naughtiness and its brash exterior. It held so many happy memories. I love it still.
    Unknown to me, this was to be the pattern of our relationship from now on. Sad partings and joyful reunions. And one such joyful reunion was to have dramatic repercussions.
    In the Summer of 1962, the day before I was to sit my third and last exam, John came home full of the joys of Spring. Ecstatically we fell into bed and we didn't sleep the whole night long. And at some point during those passionate embraces, something strange happened. It's very difficult to explain. It was just as if something went "click" inside me and my body felt different. At the time I couldn't understand what it was so I said nothing to John.
    Anyway, the next morning I dragged myself into college and actually sat the exam but I was in no fit state. I was so much the worse for wear I couldn't concentrate on my paper.
    Nevertheless, in my optimistic way I hoped for the best. John went back to his travels and life continued as usual for a few weeks until I began to notice other odd things. My period got later and later and still didn't arrive and then I started being sick in the mornings. A horrible suspicion began to creep over me. I couldn't... surely I couldn't be pregnant? That only happened to other girls. Not me. I was going to be a teacher soon.
    Worried, I contacted Phyllis. I didn't even have a doctor in Liverpool and I didn't want to go back to Hoylake where everyone knew me and might talk.
    "Never mind," said Phyl, "I'll take you to my doctor. She'll see you."
    In those days falling pregnant before marriage was a shameful thing - the ultimate disgrace for a girl. I couldn't believe it had happened to me. There must be some other explanation. So Phyl made the appointment for me and as we set out early in the morning for the doctor's surgery, we met the postman coming in. There was a letter for me. Thanking him I stuffed it in my pocket and hurried off after Phyllis.
    On top of the bus I ripped open the envelope. It was my exam results. I'd failed.
    Miserably I stared at the dreadful words. After all my hard work, after all the sacrifices Mum had made. I felt dreadful. I'd let myself down and I'd let Mum down. Tears came into my eyes.
    Phyllis seeing my distress took the letter from me.
    "It's not so bad, Cyn," she said, skimming it quickly. "You've only failed the last exam. You can always take it again next term."
    I looked at the letter again. She was right. It wasn't the end of the world. It was only one little exam. Next term I'd work really hard and make damn sure I passed.
    Feeling more cheerful I put the letter back into my pocket. It was a small setback, nothing to worry about really. Soon my career would be back on course.
    Then I walked into the doctor's and got the final shattering blow to all my hopes and dreams.
    "I'm sorry to tell you Miss Powell," said the doctor, looking at me disapprovingly, "that you're pregnant

  • Katruzka's Radio Picks

    Estos son para mi los mejores programas de música que hay en la radio de PR en estos momentos:
    1- Back to the 80's: Magic 97.3FM los viernes desde las 7pm

    2- Groovy Nights: Magic 97.3FM los sábados desde las 8pm

    3- Los Héroes del Rock n' Roll-Radio Universidad 89.7FM sábados desde las 8pm

    4- Back to the 90's- La Mega 106.9 los domingos de 4-7pm

  • No me da la gana de estar relax

    ¿Desde cuando nosotros que escuchábamos rock en nuestra adolescencia nos hemos convertidos en wimps?

    Gracias a Dios que existe el internet que puedo escuchar emisoras de radio que valen la pena en la oficina.

    La gran mayoría de las emisoras son de baladas. ¿Por qué? ¿Desde cuando tenemos que ser mellow todo el tiempo? Hasta Alfa Rock está media pendeja.

    Aaaahhh....entonces como uno es mujer se supone que me guste escuchar estas emisoritas de baladas romanticonas? Yo fui rockera en la high, como de la noche a la mañana voy a preferir escuchar a Luis Fonsi, o a Laura Pausini todo el día? Mire acabo achocá en el escritorio. Rocker once....always a rocker.

    And don't get me started with morning shows!



    Solamente pido que me den una semana de programadora en Alfa Rock. Lo hago de gratis. Con 60 años de historia del rock n' roll es imposible que Alfa siempre esté poniendo las mismas 10 canciones toda la vida.

    Perdonen. Hace tiempo que estoy pensando en esto y me tenía que desahogar.

    ¡NO ME DA LA GANA DE SER MELLOW!
    HAIL! HAIL! ROCK N' ROLL!

  • Happy Birthday George!

    Ayer 24 de febrero fue el cumpleaños de George Harrison. Aunque no está físicamente con nosotros, su espíritu sigue con nosotros.

    Para mi él fue el más que creció como ser humano en los 8 años que el mundo conoció a los Beatles. Empezó siendo un chico tímido y terminó aprendiendo cual es el significado de la vida. Not bad, huh?

    Love ya George!

    You're the beautiful Beatle, beautiful inside, beautiful outside. You were the whole package!

  • Cynthia Lennon in her own words Part 1

    The lecture theatre was in chaos. The lecturer hadn't arrived yet, the students were retless and the boy in front of me was taking full advantage of the situation. Slouched arrogantly in his seat he cracked jokes, pulled faces and made loud wisecracks until the whole place was in uproar.
    The more the audience laughed at his biting Liverpool wit the more outrageous he became, until I couldn't help smiling in spite of myself.
    I'd seen this boy before, this John Lennon, and I didn't like him. He was always in a hurry, striding round the college like he owned the place, a guitar slung over one shoulder, tatty rucksack over the other. He was scruffy, dangerous-looking and totally disruptive. He frightened the life out of me.
    Yet, somehow, he fascinated me too. I'd never come across anyone like John Lennon before. This was the first time I'd seen him at such close quarters and I examined him discreetly. he was very skinny and his dark hair, worn in a DA, was sticking up at the back as if he hadn't bothered to comb it properly.
    As I noticed this, Helen, the girl beside me, noticed it too. Laughing, she reached forward and stroked the stray locks into place. And as her fingers touched John's hair a pang of pure jealousy shot through me. I was astonished. It was instantaneous, completely out of my control and weird. I didn't even like him. Why should I be jealous?
    It never occured to me that John and I could end up together. We were complete opposites. I was quiet, hard-working and conscientious while John was a wild, attention-seeking rebel. Yet the chemistry between us was so strong that eventually we couldn't ignore it.
    Even so, had my father not died when I was 17 I think that's exactly what I would have done - ignored it. I could never have taken John home to meet my beloved Dad. My gentle, unassuming father just wouldn't have understood John and I knew it. With Dad there to guide me I think I'd have steered well clear of "dangerous" John Lennon. But there you are, he wasn't, and I plunged joyfully into the deep end. That's fate. John and I were obviously meant to be together.
    What neither of us could ever have guessed in those innocent student days was that we were about to ride a rollercoaster, the like of which had never been seen before. John was to be swept along on the tide of Beatlemania and I was sucked in right behind him. Our lives would never be the same again.
    I was born Cynthia Powell on September 10, 1939 - the week war broke out - on an iron bedstead in a boarding house in Blackpool. It was cold and wet that day, but Mum sent Dad out to pace the rainy streets because it was a difficult birth and she had enough to cope with without worrying about him too.
    They were both away from home and miserable but had no choice in the matter. The Liverpool area was in danger of being bombed and all the pregnant women were moved to Blackpool which was reckoned to be safe while my two elder brothers, Charles and Tony, were sent off with their bottles of pop and sandwiches to North Wales for the duration.
    In fact, Hoylake, where we lived, across the Mersy from Liverpool, turned out to be pretty safe. The worst scare came when a bomb that missed Liverpool landed nearby. Mum, who was holding me on her knee in the little cubby-hole under the stairs during the air-raid, was lifted three feet off the ground by the force of the explosion.
    Apart from that, we saw little of the rigours of war in our semi in Waverley Road. We had cod liver oil supplements which were disgusting, and Viral, which was lovely. It was some sort of vitamin that came in a jar and was fed to you in sticky spoonfuls that tasted of malt and toffee.
    You were supposed to dig for victory in those days and supply your own food, so Dad grew vegetables in an allotment nearby and gave me rides on the crossbar of his boke when he went to tend the cabbages. Our back garden had been turned over to a hen-pen much to my delight. I loved to watch those little brown hens strutting about. There was one particular bird called Wingy which had a malformed claw. She was my favourite. But one dreadful day she turned up on the kitchen table as dinner. It was the claw that gave it away. I cried for weeks over this pet that suddenly became a meal.
    My mum, Lillian, was artistic and musical. She and Dad used to give little concert parties and sing Rose Of Picardy. together in the front room. She wasn't that wonderful at housework but she had an eye for beautiful things and she couldn't resist auctions. Every Monday there would be a sale in West Kirby and Dad, who was anxiously counting the pennies, would say: "Please, love, dn't go to the saleroom this week. Please. We've got all these bills to pay."
    And she'd promise: "No, Charles. I won't go."
    But come Monday she always weakened. She'd wait for dad to disappear round the corner to work and then she'd be off to the saleroom. We'd come home to find a different three-piece suite in the front room, different curtains and a different carpet in the bedroom.
    Dad would stand there, looking at the re-arranged room in disbelief. "Oh, Lil - you've done it again!" he'd groan. "You've done it again."
    Being such a regular customer Mum got quite friendly with the men who delivered the furniture and she often invited them in for a cup of tea. One day she bought a great many pictures and prints.
    "Please bring them round before Charles gets home," she begged, realising she might have overdone it a bit this time.
    But before they arrived, she was unexpectedly called away and the delivery men turned up to find no one home. So they lined up all the pictures along the wall outside the house and chalked on the pavement in front of them: "All her own work."
    Dad came home to find the outdoor gallery in all its extensive splendour and Mum's wings were clipped for quite a while.
    Despite all this, Dad never got angry with Mum. He didn't have an angry bone in his body. He only ever smacked me once in my life when I was about 12 and I swore.
    He must have been feeling unusually bad-tempered and fraught that particular night. He was a salesman for the electrical company GEC and he was working on those endless books that salesmen have to fill in. Anyway, I suppose I was annoyed that he wasn't taking any notice of me and I came out with the worst word I could think of. The next thing I knew there was a stinging slap on my leg.
    I couldn't believe it. I was speechless. The fact that Dad had actually smacked me was much worse than the fleeting pain. I never said the offending word again - not in Dad's presence anyway!
    'Dad was honourable and kind. He never said a bad word about anybody and he always had a bag of sweets in his pocket. He was my best friend.'

    I adored my father. He was secretary of the bowls club and I used to go along every Saturday with him to watch him play and mark his cards.
    Then, when I was 12, I won a place at the Junior Art School in Liverpool and since Dad worked in the city we used to travel in together on the train every morning and come home together every night. Dad was honourable and kind. He never said a bad word about anybody and he always had a bag of sweets in his pocket. I loved to be with him. he was my best friend.
    I had a very happy childhood, Waverley Road was a great place to grow up. It was a safe, traffic-free cul-de-sac and a good crowd of kids lived there. Every year we held the Waverley Road Olympic Games. The mums would make sandwiches, the dads would man the startlines and the children would take part in everything from egg and spoon and wheelbarrow races to the hundred-yards dash.
    We were all ages, shapes and sizes. There were no qualifying heats. We'd all just muck in and try. Looking back I suppose it was r