Friday 8th August 1969.
Just before noonish.
Four world-famous faces convene outside EMI Studios in St. John’s Wood. Their bodies convene at the same location; it would have looked weird if they hadn't.
A stepladder is quickly set up in the centre of the main road, just a few yards from a zebra crossing. The four musicians wander down to it, the clean-shaven one kicks off his sandals and they then proceed to walk over the crossing a handful of times - the musicians, not the sandals - whilst a photographer up the ladder captures the moment.
I’m referring to the cover shoot for The Beatles’ Abbey Road. Get it? Good.
At that point the Fab Four were already at the tail-end of their collective career, only a few brief months from calling it a day. They’d conquered the world (musically speaking), and in just seven years had transmuted from loveable moptops to less-loveable, even-moppier moptops – and, get this: none of them had yet reached thirty.
Ringo was twenty-nine, John was twenty-eight, Paul was twenty-seven and George was twenty-six.
I’m thirty-two. F**k it.
Now, don’t get me wrong: I’m under no illusion that thirty-two is old. Just older. Older than them.
I know it's a little unrealistic comparing my own career trajectory to The Beatles – they are a bit of an exception – but nevertheless, it’s worrying when you realise that the people you look up to most were a good deal younger than you by the time they'd passed their peak; Lennon had already imagined no possessions, Macca was busily fronting his 'Band on the Run' and George was way past 'All Things Must Pass'.
...and what of me? I appeared in AA advert once.
When I turned twenty-four I received the then-exciting opportunity to tour the UK as one of my other musical heroes, Buddy Holly. It was a daunting yet exciting prospect. I made my horn-rimmed debut at The Market Place Arts Centre in Armagh - and I can still remember the moment when it dawned on me what I was doing.
It was towards the middle of the second half, part-way through ‘Early in the Morning’, that I thought to myself, "this is madness. I’m in the centre of this, in a packed theatre, pretending to be someone I’ve loved since I was at junior school – and I’m being paid for it".
From then on I really started to enjoy it.
Pretending to be a rock star never lost its novelty (though the relentless touring soon did) – but the funny thing was, even at the point of taking on the job I was too old for it. Buddy Holly was twenty-two when he died; I was twenty-four when I made my first ‘budget’ attempts at imitating him.
His career lasted a year and nine months, from his first single to his untimely death. At the time of writing I've done the Buddy job on-and-off for eight years. Bizarrely, I've pretended to be him for longer than he actually was him - professionally, at least.
I guess the trick with this stuff is to not over-think it. Yes, Steve Coogan was only twenty-seven when he made ‘Knowing Me, Knowing You with Alan Partridge’...yes, Rowan Atkinson was already my age by the time he made his third series of Blackadder (how can that be right? He looked like a proper adult) – but for all the people who acheived their career high-points so early, there were plenty who hadn't. Peter Falk is a good example; he was twenty-nine by the time he swapped accountancy for acting, and by thirty-four he'd already been nominated for two Academy Awards.
Don't let it be said I don't think big.
I'm in it for the long game. Besides, at my age Ringo Starr was still a good twelve years away from voicing The Fat Controller.
All is not lost...
Four world-famous faces convene outside EMI Studios in St. John’s Wood. Their bodies convene at the same location; it would have looked weird if they hadn't.
A stepladder is quickly set up in the centre of the main road, just a few yards from a zebra crossing. The four musicians wander down to it, the clean-shaven one kicks off his sandals and they then proceed to walk over the crossing a handful of times - the musicians, not the sandals - whilst a photographer up the ladder captures the moment.
I’m referring to the cover shoot for The Beatles’ Abbey Road. Get it? Good.
At that point the Fab Four were already at the tail-end of their collective career, only a few brief months from calling it a day. They’d conquered the world (musically speaking), and in just seven years had transmuted from loveable moptops to less-loveable, even-moppier moptops – and, get this: none of them had yet reached thirty.
Ringo was twenty-nine, John was twenty-eight, Paul was twenty-seven and George was twenty-six.
I’m thirty-two. F**k it.
Now, don’t get me wrong: I’m under no illusion that thirty-two is old. Just older. Older than them.
I know it's a little unrealistic comparing my own career trajectory to The Beatles – they are a bit of an exception – but nevertheless, it’s worrying when you realise that the people you look up to most were a good deal younger than you by the time they'd passed their peak; Lennon had already imagined no possessions, Macca was busily fronting his 'Band on the Run' and George was way past 'All Things Must Pass'.
...and what of me? I appeared in AA advert once.
When I turned twenty-four I received the then-exciting opportunity to tour the UK as one of my other musical heroes, Buddy Holly. It was a daunting yet exciting prospect. I made my horn-rimmed debut at The Market Place Arts Centre in Armagh - and I can still remember the moment when it dawned on me what I was doing.
It was towards the middle of the second half, part-way through ‘Early in the Morning’, that I thought to myself, "this is madness. I’m in the centre of this, in a packed theatre, pretending to be someone I’ve loved since I was at junior school – and I’m being paid for it".
From then on I really started to enjoy it.
Pretending to be a rock star never lost its novelty (though the relentless touring soon did) – but the funny thing was, even at the point of taking on the job I was too old for it. Buddy Holly was twenty-two when he died; I was twenty-four when I made my first ‘budget’ attempts at imitating him.
His career lasted a year and nine months, from his first single to his untimely death. At the time of writing I've done the Buddy job on-and-off for eight years. Bizarrely, I've pretended to be him for longer than he actually was him - professionally, at least.
I guess the trick with this stuff is to not over-think it. Yes, Steve Coogan was only twenty-seven when he made ‘Knowing Me, Knowing You with Alan Partridge’...yes, Rowan Atkinson was already my age by the time he made his third series of Blackadder (how can that be right? He looked like a proper adult) – but for all the people who acheived their career high-points so early, there were plenty who hadn't. Peter Falk is a good example; he was twenty-nine by the time he swapped accountancy for acting, and by thirty-four he'd already been nominated for two Academy Awards.
Don't let it be said I don't think big.
I'm in it for the long game. Besides, at my age Ringo Starr was still a good twelve years away from voicing The Fat Controller.
All is not lost...
