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Everyone seems to have something to say about John Lennon. From his days as a neerdowell Teddy Boy to his rancorous days as a rocker child in Berlin to multi-million selling rock n' roll icon, his life seems to be rich in stories, a biographers daydream. And he hasn't been especially guarded with his personal history. Especially as he journeyed inwards in the late 70's, Lennon was all to nonplussed when discussing how his mother and father all but abandoned him.

But that was then, and these stories have been told. It is now 1998. England has successfully clawed its way out from under Thatcherism and welcomed in Tony Blair's New style of Labour. Angry young kids from council estates, called Asbos, roam the streets. Bands like NSYNC and The Spice Girls have replaced the Fabs on the airwaves as the dominating force of youthful pop. In his modern flat in West Hampstead, Lennon spits on them all. To the now fifty-eight year old musician, it's more of the same. He's seen more than enough uptight short sided narrow minded hypocrites in his time.

"There was a time where I said I didn't believe in Beatles," he confesses. "But you look at what they're doing with music now and I take it back. You name me another group who had what The Beatles had. We came at the right time. We wrote some pretty good stuff, our own material. We didn't have writers. Now it all rolls out of this big factory like luncheon and I can't bloody stand it." he pauses, his train of thought catching up with him, as he looks out the window on to the street below. A pair of children punt a soccer ball worryingly near to his poppies.

"I voted for the Greens last election, did you lot remember that?" We did. Since the turn of the decade, Lennon has doubled down on his political buoyancy, taking to writing rambling op-eds in the Sunday Mirror when the biographical spirit takes him. "I mean, I would've voted for Georgie Galloway if he wasn't such a dingbat." he pauses again, his falcon eyes darting each time the ball threatens his garden. "Fat load of cobblers it'd do against Blair, tho."

By way of a wayward kick, the ball impacts the front-lawn flower bed. Lennon raps the window with a boney fist and tells the kids to shove off. One of them sneers, the other flips him the forks, before both bolt. A more youthful Lennon would have inevitably barreled out the door after them, using all manner of creative insults he has stored in his artillery. But that would've been before Woodstock. Before he lost Yoko. Before the Brighton Bombing. He turns.

"So did you want a cuppa before we start the inquisition?"​
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