McCartney stirs my memories

The story of the week? Forget Hurricane Florence. Forget Typhoon Mangkhut – though one has to pity the much put-upon Filipinos. Forget even Paul Manafort, Trump’s campaign manager, who has finally flipped on his former boss in a bid to save a few square inches of his own repulsive hide.

No, the story of the week is that half a century ago the young Paul McCartney and the young John Lennon engaged in sessions – and you may wish to look away while reading the rest of this sentence – of joint masturbation.

I know, I know, and we have only McCartney’s word for it, his co-conspirator being unavailable for comment, but McCartney is a knight of the realm and who are we to doubt a knight of the realm? Besides the details are convincing.

The two young men would sit in darkness at a discreet distance from each other and go to it. From time to time, in order to generate additional fervour, one or other would call out the name of some attractive public figure.

Brigitte Bardot was frequently invoked, it seems, though Lennon would occasionally surprise the gathering by calling out Winston Churchill.

And yes, this is the same John Lennon as went on to write the million-selling ‘‘Imagine all the people’’. It is for you to decide whether that is coincidence or evidence.

Anyway, as soon as the story broke, my phone started ringing.

‘‘Joe,’’ asked the first of many callers, ‘‘can this be true?’’

‘‘True!’’ I said, ‘‘Of course it’s true. The Sixties didn’t get to be called swinging by going to bed early with a cup of a cocoa.’’

‘‘But Joe,’’ she said, and in her voice I sensed curiosity vying with diffidence, ‘‘did you ever, well, you mixed with all the stars of the day, did you, yourself, . . .’’

‘‘Did I?’’ I exclaimed. ‘‘Is the pope an Argentinian cross-dresser? Of course I bloody did. Everyone did.

‘‘Not only was it an innocent joy, it also served a practical purpose. Every pop star was under pressure to come up with the next big hit and this was seen as a way of cracking writer’s block and freeing up the creative juices.

‘‘Furthermore I seemed to have a particular knack for stimulating new song titles so I was much in demand at these sessions. Oh the stories I could tell.’’

‘‘Go on,’’ she said.

Normally, of course, I wouldn’t. But now that little Paul had spilt the beans, I decided one story wouldn’t hurt and I told her of the time I was staying at Charlie Watts’ flat.

Charlie had just bought this kitten, you see, but then the Stones decided to go on tour so he asked if I’d look after the kitten and the flat while he was away.

I’d only been there a few days when who should turn up on the doorstep but Tom Jones.

He was in a terrible state. His minders were begging for a new hit but he’d come up with nothing. Would I mind if perhaps . . .

‘‘Pull up a chair, Tom,’’ I said. I drew the curtains, turned off the lights and away we went. But for some reason the atmosphere was flat. Nothing, so to speak, came.

Then all of a sudden the kitten, in playful mood, leapt out of the darkness onto Tom’s lap and sank its claws.

‘‘What the hell was that?’’ screamed Tom, erupting from his chair, cradling his crotch. ‘‘Watts’ new pussycat,’’ I said.

It remains the only time I’ve been kissed by a pop star.