The Walrus Was David.


Last night, I had a very bizarre but exciting dream (don’t worry, it wasn’t sexual). I dreamt that I had been secretly drafted in to replace Paul McCartney in The Beatles.

The swap was top secret. Not even John, George or Ringo knew anything about it. Presumably, my subconscious assumed that none of the Fab Four were particularly observant. The only person that was in on it was their producer, George Martin – who took me to one side when the others weren’t looking and congratulated me on a sterling effort.

The only thing that Sir George was unhappy with was my hairstyle, which was exactly the same as it is in real life. He told me to brush it forward. I took his advice, though it wasn’t quite long enough to pull the style off.

(Trust my subconscious to put such a mundane fly in the ointment.)

It was a bit like Quantum Leap, only without Dean Stockwell cropping up to smoke a cigar and fiddle with his little electrical device. Most of the action took place in Abbey Road Studios. At one point I was recording the vocal to Eleanor Rigby; doing my best Macca impression to a string octet accompaniment.

When I woke up, I was very disappointed. Until then, I hadn’t questioned the reality of the situation. I’d just been asked to play bass in the most successful band of all time; nothing to write home about.

Hopefully tonight I'll dream that I'm the frontman of Wings.

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