‘Here Comes the Sun’ by The Beatles （1969）
‘I knew it,’ she said, ‘I knew there’d be Beatles.’
‘Everyone likes the Beatles.’
‘Men more than women, I think.’
‘Is that true?’
‘The Beatles and George Orwell and The Shawshank Redemption.’
‘I do like all of those things.’
‘And that’s fine. It’s a kind of fantasy, isn’t it? Being in a band, being one of the four basic personality types. You’re all John or George or Paul or Ringo. It’s music, but also this dream of male friendship.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Do you have friends like that?’
He thought a moment. ‘Not really. Or I used to. Less so now.’
‘You broke up the band.’
‘Not formally, just more …’ He paused for a moment, making a decision. ‘I don’t know if Cleo told you. I had this … well, I can’t really call it a fight. I got beaten-up, really badly, in the street.’
‘She said you’d been in hospital.’
‘I was. I was for a while. I don’t want to go into it but when I came out I was a bit … shaky. Not just physically, but nervous, around people, crowds, the kids at school. I still get it a bit. Not this second—’
‘Well, that’s good to know.’
‘—but it comes and goes. The point is I had these mates, male friends, some from work, and we used to play football every week, a kick-about, middle-aged men laughing at each other, and when I was all better, I went back. And everyone was so nice. “Are you okay? You look well.” And there was no tackling and no shouting and all these pats on the back every time I touched the ball, well done, mate, well done, and it was quite touching really, everyone being so thoughtful. But it didn’t feel right. So I stopped going.’
‘You were upset because they weren’t meaner.’
‘No, it was just …’ He hesitated here because there was another scene, immediately after that match, where he’d sat in the car park, hands over his face, shoulders shaking, without quite knowing why. ‘It wasn’t the same.’
‘Might you go back?’
‘Maybe. But as a pal not a fucking … mental patient. So.’
The F-word was a mistake. The teacher in his head told him, Hey, no need for that. It was melodramatic and self-pitying and he was keen to move on. She must have sensed this too because she asked, ‘So you’re working on solo material now?’
‘I’m back in the studio.’
‘Forming Wings?’
‘Oh, I’m not sure I’m Paul.’
‘So which one are you? Of the four basic personality types.’
‘I don’t know. You tell me.’
She looked at his face, as if this might help. ‘George, I think.’
‘Really? Doesn’t everyone want to be John?’
‘The Pauls all want to be Johns and the Johns are generally unbearable. The Ringos are nice enough and fun. But a George is the classiest option. Trust me,’ she said, ‘a George is the thing to be,’ and he felt satisfied with that. ‘Right. What’s next?’