Paul’s flight to Scotland by private plane (he was to join us later in New York [for the Apple promotion trip]) had been timed to allow an Ordeal by Tea for Ron Kass, then seeking to become head of Apple Records. We had met him in the restaurant at Heathrow, to see if he was as good (‘great’ was the word used then and now in Beatle circles) as they said. He certainly seemed so, smiling through the interrogation and examination. Ron was, is, a nervous man of much charm and sincerity, frequently ill-used by one Heavy Mob or another by whom he has so often found himself employed in high office. His smoothness, however, has always been a help and he quite disarmed Paul by unfolding a concertina of credit cards and badges of authority quite two feet long, encased in folding plastic. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘this one here entitles me to be an income-tax inspector.’ This last piece of intelligence Paul was quick to pass on to John, in that naive way so deplored by Epstein (‘Hey, there’s this gear fellow with two dicks who can play the saxophone with his arse...’). Ron Kass told me the day before the large Monday press conference in New York with Lennon that this was the one confrontation he really dreaded. The lizard-tongued leader of The Beatles was a formidable prospect, he said, or so he’d heard. ‘Nothing to worry about,’ I said, from the safety of five years’ acquaintance; though I had never actually been frightened of John. Of Paul, yes; never of John. ‘Just be pleasant. He’s nervous about running a business. He hasn’t the first idea about it. Nor has Paul. They just want to do the best they can for people and have a laugh and a shout doing it. Controlled weirdness. That’s what this is all about.’ With that motto in mind, someone had hired a Chinese Junk, a specially designed piece of New York nonsense modelled on an old traditional sailing-vessel. It had enormous charm and a busy bar. After taking some pills called Purple Holiday (a mild and extremely benign hallucinogen given us by the chauffeur, one John F.), John and I, newly witty and perceptive, signed the visitors’ book with what seems to us hysterically funny suburban names. Mr Len Thompson, 14 Lupin Close, Wallasey was one and John added another and then another; so that on that occasion The Beatles’ autographs did not appear in the visitors’ book, but their handwriting did.
Fifty Years Adrift, Derek Taylor (1984)
