Give Me a Chance Read online

  A glimpse of my Beatlemaniac’s bedroom, along with the original camera and typewriter I used at the Bed-In.

  PREFACE

  WELCOME TO 1969

  1969 could be great if you were young. It was a year of optimism, hope and adventure. Most of us had long hair; many were hippies. School, street and home resonated with cries of “Get your hair cut!”

  Music festivals flourished. Woodstock (“AN AQUARIAN EXPOSITION: 3 DAYS OF PEACE & MUSIC”) drew 400,000 people to a dairy farm in upper New York State to listen to four days of music from Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Joan Baez and scores more.

  It was a time of surprises and innovation. On television, Monty Python’s Flying Circus and The Benny Hill Show started in Britain, and Sesame Street premièred in the USA. In Coronation Street, Ken Barlow was still a young man.

  In education, Harold Wilson, the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, helped to pioneer the Open University, whose courses were open to anyone regardless of qualifications and could be studied anywhere in the world.

  Science also braved new frontiers. We all watched our tellies breathlessly as the American astronaut Neil Armstrong became the first man to walk on the moon: “That’s one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.” The first artificial heart was implanted and Concorde, the supersonic passenger airliner, took its maiden flight.

  On a bleaker note, in America there were race and civil-rights riots. The war in Vietnam still raged, at huge cost to human life, the casualties numbering in the millions. Opposition to American President Richard Nixon and the war grew as the world learned about the US’s secret bombing of Cambodia and the atrocities committed against innocent civilians.

  Conversely, the peace movement grew. Millions around the world attended anti-war demos and rallies; it was a time of revolution and protest. Young people found their voices as never before. As William Wordsworth wrote about the French Revolution in 1789, “Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive, But to be young was very heaven!”

  Or, as John Lennon might have said, “You shoulda been there.”

  Based on my eight

  days at John Lennon’s

  and Yoko Ono’s Bed-In

  for Peace in Montreal,

  Canada, in 1969.

  There were hundreds

  of people at the

  Bed-In, each with

  their own story.

  This is mine.

  My prized Beatles Fan Club card. I joined at the start in 1964 and there were already over half a million members.

  ONE

  MAGICAL MYSTERY TOUR

  I was sixteen in 1969 and I’d been a Beatles fan for as long as I could remember. I was living in the frozen north of Montreal, Canada – which is fine if you’re a moose.

  Don’t get me wrong. Montreal is a splendid place to live, especially if you like maple syrup and winter sports. If you think about it, they’re an ideal combination: one makes you fat and the other makes you slim.

  I adored my mother and father, who have always been kind and generous. My folks had even bought us the first colour television on the street; no loving parent could do more. And on a good day, I even liked my big brother – though not as much as I did our dog. But let’s be fair: the dog had a pedigree.

  I couldn’t complain – mainly because I was a kid and no one would listen. There was nothing really wrong, but I was bored. I felt as if I was waiting for my life to begin, but I wasn’t sure how that should happen. And suddenly the Beatles and their music came along and all the lights seemed to switch on. I swear the sun even shone a bit brighter once they were in my life.

  You could follow my growth through the Beatles, even better than with one of those wallcharts where you record your height. I can remember where I was and what I was doing when I first heard every single one of their songs. I was eleven and had just finished a piano lesson when I first heard “She Loves You”. It zapped through me like an electrical charge.

  It was totally different from anything I’d ever heard before, especially since my brother was into bands who put the bla in bland, and my parents played The Sound of Music non-stop. The Beatles’ music was young, vibrant and new. I felt that the band spoke to me, and me alone, and that they understood me. It made me feel happy, hopeful and special just to listen to them – pretty good for a three-minute song.

  I wasn’t the only one who felt like that. Beatlemania, as it became known, swept the world. The band had fans in every country, and my friends and I were some of the biggest. We just couldn’t get enough of them, and we bought every souvenir we could get our hands on. Between us, we had Beatles books, magazines, handbags, hats, T-shirts and scarves. If they’d made Beatles underwear, I’d have worn that as well.

  Then came the amazing day when it was announced the Beatles were going to be on the telly. At that point they had three songs in the Top Ten, and they were being flown to America to appear on The Ed Sullivan Show. Luckily we could see that show in Canada too, or I’d have emigrated. I counted the hours. I’d reserved the family’s TV weeks in advance and set up camp in front of the set.

  The night the Beatles were on, they played live and 73 million viewers tuned in. Make that 73 million and me. It was the biggest audience television had ever known. I envied the fans actually there in the studio, who were mainly girls about my age. They were screaming and crying, obviously having the time of their lives – near to my idols while I could only wish and dream.

  I watched every second. If I’d sat any closer to the TV I’d have been inside it. As the Beatles played their new single, “I Want To Hold Your Hand”, I thought I would explode with happiness. And have I mentioned they were handsome?

  The Fab Four, as we fans also called them, were in their early twenties and gorgeous beyond belief: John, Paul, George and Ringo. By this point, I read everything I could about them; I had never studied that hard at school.

  John Lennon had a raspy singing voice and played a wicked guitar. He was the leader, a rebel and, without a doubt, the funniest in the group. He wasn’t afraid of anything or anyone and always seemed to say what he thought. When the Beatles played a concert in front of the Royal Family, John said, “Will the people in the cheaper seats clap your hands? And the rest of you, if you’ll just rattle your jewellery.”

  Paul McCartney was the bass guitarist and had the voice and face of an angel. Everyone, including mums, loved him – but we forgave Paul even that.

  George Harrison was the youngest. He was shy and used to peek out from behind his long brown fringe. He didn’t say much, but he made his guitar speak for him, which was more than enough for us fans.

  Last but never least was Ringo Starr, the oldest and the drummer. He was known as Ringo because he wore so many rings on his fingers. It was a wonder he could lift his drumsticks.

  Together, with their music, the Beatles made magic. They had over twenty Number One singles in six years. Not only that, but John, Paul and George wrote most of their own songs. Their style was forever changing and no one could ever guess what they were going to do next. But where they led, the world followed and the world loved them. And so did I.

  The Beatles started many new fashions. Everyone wanted to dress like them, talk like them and wear their hair long with a fringe like them. On top of that, they all came from Liverpool, which sounded really romantic to me. My friends and I just couldn’t get enough of them. They were ours.

  It was a special day whenever the Beatles released a new single or album. My girlfriends and I would race down to the shops in our miniskirts and vinyl boots to buy it, then hurry home and listen to it in my bedroom. We concentrated on every note and every word, and played each track again and again. We spent a lot of time sprawled on my bed, earnestly discussing wh
ich of the Fab Four was our favourite. From the start, John was always mine. No contest.

  Gazing at the latest Beatles album cover, I feared that would be the closest I’d ever get to John. My home was three thousand miles away from his. The chances of my meeting him were less than of my going to the moon.

  Then one afternoon, on 27 May 1969, there was a crackly announcement on my transistor radio. The battery was low and I was only half-listening, but I heard a newsreader announce that John Lennon and his new wife, Yoko Ono, had come to Montreal. I was sure I must have heard it wrong. I had wanted it so much, my mind must be playing tricks on me. Besides, I didn’t think anyone ever came to Montreal of their own free will.

  Just to be sure, I raced into the sitting room and switched on the telly. And there were John and Yoko on our local news. They were dressed all in white and arriving at the Queen Elizabeth, a grand hotel in the centre of the city, only twenty minutes from where I lived. John said they were there to have a “Bed-In”, whatever that was, and to talk about peace. I didn’t understand what he meant, but anyway all I cared about was that they were so near. John also mentioned that he and Yoko were on their honeymoon.

  I’d already done some research on John’s new wife. I knew that Yoko was born in Japan and her name meant “Ocean Child”. She’d written books, made films and had art shows. I could see that she was talented and original and would appeal to someone like John. It was only because of their marriage that the public was now getting to find out about her. As John himself said, “Yoko’s the world’s most famous unknown artist. Everybody knows her name, but nobody knows what she does.”

  Before the report had finished, I knew what I was going to do. I’d finished my exams, so I didn’t have any homework – not that it would have made any difference; wild horses couldn’t have kept me from seeing John and Yoko. I left a note for my mum, telling her I’d be home for dinner, jumped on the 165 bus and headed straight for the Queen Elizabeth Hotel. As I got near I got caught in a traffic jam, which was agony, then ran the last part of the way, impressing even myself. I usually never moved so fast unless chocolate cake was involved.

  While I ran, I also began to wonder whether I might be able to write a piece about the Lennons. The thought was electrifying.

  Confession time. I’d always dreamed of being a writer, but I’d never dared tell anyone in case they laughed at me. There’s nothing worse than being mocked or not taken seriously when you’ve confided something close to your heart. Sometimes it’s easier not to say anything at all.

  I’d written comedy sketches, which friends and I performed; I was also a reporter for my school newspaper – but the subject matter was less than riveting. Here was the scoop of a lifetime: the Lennons were in my town!

  When I got to the hotel, I was amazed to see a huge crowd outside. It hadn’t occurred to me that I might not be the only one with the same brilliant idea. After all, I wasn’t the only Beatlemaniac in the world. There was a sea of fans, all pushing and shouting, begging to see the Lennons. They hadn’t a hope, and were held back behind barriers by the police.

  This wasn’t looking good. Never mind getting close to the Lennons; right now there was no way I could even get near the hotel’s entrance. But having come this far, I knew there was no way I’d turn back. I didn’t know the meaning of the word “failure”.

  Someone in the crowd was listening to a portable radio, and shouted that the Lennons had a suite on the seventeenth floor. Along with everyone else, I screwed up my eyes and squinted upwards, but try as I might I couldn’t see a thing. It was excruciating knowing that my hero was so near and yet so far; I’d never felt so frustrated in my life, not even when doing algebra.

  I decided to take action. I tried to duck under a barrier, but a policeman spotted me immediately and yelled at me to get back with the others. He obviously didn’t know who I was! I mustered all my dignity – which didn’t take long – and told him I was a reporter and wanted to write an article for my school newspaper. Somehow he didn’t seem impressed. I wondered if he’d seen our paper.

  I couldn’t think what else to do and was about to head for home, depressed and defeated, when I had a brainwave. I realized everyone was looking at the hotel – and no one was bothering about me. Breaking away from the crowd, I casually circled the building, curious to see what was round the back.

  To my surprise, there wasn’t a soul there; all the guards were in front. I could see a fire escape on the side of the hotel, which went all the way to the roof. It made me dizzy just to look up.

  I’ve always had a fear of heights, but now wasn’t the time to think about that – not when this might be the only chance I’d ever get to see John Lennon. I knew that if I thought about it too much, I wouldn’t do it. I took a deep breath, said a quick prayer covering every possibility I could think of, and started to climb up the fire escape. It clanked scarily with every step I took but I tried not to look down, or up, or sideways. It didn’t help. I was still petrified.

  As I climbed, I hastily thought of a plan. It’d be pointless to climb all the way up to the seventeenth floor, where there would probably be security people who would just send me away. To go all that way for nothing would be unbearable. I decided to aim for the floor below, which might be less guarded, and wing it from there. As I climbed higher and higher, the muscles in my legs started to ache. I wished I hadn’t bunked off P.E. so much. I counted the floors all the way up to take my mind off the pain, but they seemed to go past slower and slower.

  When I finally reached the sixteenth floor, I paused to catch my breath, and looking in through a window I saw it opened onto a back staircase. As luck would have it, there wasn’t a soul in sight. I silently slid the window open and clambered inside. I tried not to make a sound as I headed up the stairs. My luck was holding.

  When I got to the seventeenth floor, I opened the stairway door a crack, peeked out and saw a corridor with expensive-looking carpets. I’d never been inside this hotel before and I had no real idea where I was going. But I knew I’d come to the right place when I saw a security man outside the door of room 1742. There couldn’t be a lot of guests on that floor who had guards.

  Now that I was here, I didn’t know what to do. My plan had covered only getting this far. I watched the guard as he sipped from a container of coffee and was aware I had to be cunning. I knew I couldn’t stay there undiscovered for long. Suddenly it occurred to me that the guard’s coffee was very large … I crossed my fingers and hoped I might be able to rely on nature taking its course.

  I was never so glad to be right. A few minutes later, the security man hurried away, presumably in search of a loo. The moment he was out of sight, I raced to room 1742 and, my heart pounding, knocked on the door. After what seemed like an eternity, it was opened by Yoko. I was stunned. I’d never imagined that one of the Lennons would answer the door.

  Yoko was tiny and looked exactly as she did in her photos, only even softer and prettier. She was wearing a white trouser suit, which highlighted her lovely dark eyes and long wavy black hair. A little girl peeped out from behind her. I recognized her as Yoko’s daughter from her first marriage, Kyoko. Softly, Yoko asked me what I wanted. Good question, I thought, stuttering bravely, “Could I please have an interview for my school newspaper?”

  At that moment, the security man came rushing back from his loo break. Seeing me, he was furious, and apologized profusely to Mrs Lennon for letting me through. He offered to throw me out – but Yoko opened the door wider and said, “No, come in. John and I would be glad to speak to you.”

  For a moment I thought I hadn’t heard right, but I didn’t wait to be told twice. I hurried into the room after Yoko, leaving the astonished security man outside. I found myself in a sitting room, with lots of doors leading off it. I didn’t have time to take much in because Kyoko wanted to show me her fluffy orange dog, which I was admiring when I heard someone come up behind me.

  “Hi there,” said a familiar voice. “What�
��s your Christian name?”

  I spun round. It was John Lennon, standing there smiling at me. For the first time in my life I was speechless. Eventually I blurted out, “I’m Jewish – I don’t have one.”

  John laughed – but I felt like falling through the floor. “Sorry,” I cringed, “I’m nervous.”

  “Relax,” he said in a mock American accent, as he chewed gum. “I’m just an average Joe.”

  OK, even I knew John Lennon wasn’t an average anything. He was a Beatle, musician, writer, composer and one of the most famous men in the world. More important than that, he was my idol. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. I took snapshots of him in my mind, fearing I might not be there long and not wanting to forget a thing.

  John was wearing a white linen suit and shirt, perfect for the sunny spring day. His brown eyes twinkled at me from behind his round, rimless glasses, hinting at both his humour and his intelligence. His long, light brown hair was parted in the middle and he was very slim. I’d never noticed his chipped front tooth in photos, but now it was obvious. He’d also recently grown a beard, which a lot of fans didn’t like, but I didn’t mind because John was behind it.

  Yoko explained that I wanted an interview. John good-naturedly replied that would be fine but he was starving and wanted to eat first. They’d been travelling all day and had ordered a meal from room service, but it hadn’t arrived yet.

  I dug quickly into my handbag, in which I carried everything in the universe, because you never knew when you were going to be stuck in a blizzard or need a pair of tights. I was glad when I pulled out a chocolate Hershey bar. “Would you like this?” I offered it to John shyly.

  He stared at it, delighted. “Are you sure? You don’t mind if I have it?”

  I was surprised that a Beatle could be excited by something as simple as a chocolate bar. It had only cost ten cents. I couldn’t think of anyone I’d like to give it to more.