Like the Moon, and the Stars, and the Sun

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Saville Row, 8th September 1969

“And thus, I bring this meeting of the Justice Society to order!” intoned John Lennon, waving his arms around in a childish manner, clearly thrilled with yet another round of playing businessmen. Ringo definitely needed a bit more medicinal help if he was going to get through this. He leaned back to one of the interns and asked if they could get him another Alka-Seltzer.

“And we’d also like to thank our own Oingo-Boingo for joining us in spite of his jitters.” Remarked Lennon, gesturing towards the drummer.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world, Johnny.” Intoned Ringo annoyed at his bandmates cadence. As John bounced around the room with fresh energy, Paul McCartney remained slumped on his recliner, undoubtedly under the influence of a particular pharmaceutical remedy of his own, whilst George Harrison sat perched at the table, statuesque and stoic.

“Now onto business. Abbey Road was good, no denying. But it wasn’t great. So, what do we think about the next one?” Lennon intoned, looking around the room with a maniac grin. He was clearly in one of his moods, Ringo thought, as the intern slotted a rounded glass into his hand full of gently bubbling liquid. He sipped, and it stung his English palate. It reminded him of the medicine he had to take when he was younger.

“What were you thinking?” Paul inquired, barely stirring from his recliner, intent on letting the more active of the four drive the conversation least he steals a bit of shut eye.

“I think we should change it up, lads. The formula’s been done. Four songs apiece from Paul, George and me, and two from Ringo – if he wants them.” He grinned again at the drummer, who squirmed as his stomach kicked up another fit. Lennon was obviously enjoying ribbing a compatriot in medical distress.

“Eh, I could do with or without,” Said Ringo, recovering, “mine need a bit more polishing. By the time I’ve written one you lot have written sixteen.”

“You want me on equal footing?” inquired Harrison, finally speaking up. He looked genuinely surprised; both of his eyebrows raised. “I was expecting to have to fight you both on this.”

“Indeed, I do. It’s time we put the whole Lennon-and-McCartney myth to bed, methinks.”

Paul now sat up, not at full attention but something close to it. I thought until this album that George’s songs weren’t that good.” He muttered.

George shot him a look. “That’s a matter of taste. All down the line, people have liked my songs.”

Lennon leant back in his chair to add to the discussion. “And that’s rich, comin’ from you, Paul. Nobody dug your song about Max and his silver hammer. You could shop those songs around to Mary Hopkins or whoever else.”

Paul didn’t flinch. “I recorded it because I liked it.”

Ringo, sensing the shift in mood, interjected by setting his glass of gently hissing liquid down on the table. “If we’re gonna commit to another album, then the label’s gonna want single out by Christmas.”

Lennon sneered. “To pad their grubby little pockets, no less.”

“Do we have anything we can use then? Anyone have anything they could shop around?”. McCartney was echoing the wording Lennon chose earlier in attempt to gain some equal leverage. Lennon was having none of it.

“Oh you know I got something, Paulie. I still think Cold Turkey can make a dent in the charts.”

Paul rolled his eyes. “John, I’ve told you, it just wouldn’t get past the beeb. It’s about drugs!”

“It’s about food poisoning, actually. But whatever we don’t tell the fans won’t hurt them.”

“Give it a chance, Paul.”, muttered Ringo, “We can tweak it.”

“Heh, tweak it.”

“I’m with John here. It has edge, and it always means less work for us. Time to do some solo projects or whatever you want.”

McCartney hesitated. “I don’t know. Maybe if we kept it to a B-side, just maybe.”

Lennon shrugged. “Fine then. Relegate me to the besides of history, if you must. Just give George the A-side, while you’re at it.”

The other three blinked at him.

“I’m in a generous mood, sue me.” Glared Lennon.

McCartney cleared his throat awkwardly. “So, uh, George, you got one?”

“Of course,” George sniffed, “I got many. You can take your pick, if you like.”

Lennon rapped his knuckles on the table. “That settles it. Come Crimbletime we’ll have something new in the works. All in agreement say hi-ho silver!”
 
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