Undisputed_ How to Become the World Champion in 1,372 Easy Steps - Chris Jericho [119]
Ozzy was a great storyteller but a terrible bus driver. We’d often swerve from lane to lane in the middle of the night for no particular reason. (My deformed flashing of the horns is a result of a broken pinky that was never set properly.)
It was a major thrill to see all of these places I knew due to my obsession with my favorite band, especially while I was on tour with my own band.
Tomorrow never knows how froot life can be sometimes.
But the coup de grâce of the “real” Beatles tour was meeting the Hursts’ family friend Johnny Hutch. I know that doesn’t sound too impressive upon first read, but stay with me, Apple Scruffs. Johnny Hutch was a member of the Beatles for about a minute, when John and Paul tapped him to play a few gigs after Pete Best’s departure and before the arrival of his replacement, Ringo Starr. I couldn’t believe my luck when I found a picture of Johnny playing with the Beatles in a magazine for him to sign.
We knocked on his door and I was awash with the anticipation over hearing the certain astonishing tales Hutch must have about his awesome (albeit brief ) stint playing with the biggest and most influential band of all time.
Nobody answered the first knock, so Paul tapped his knuckle against the door again.
Suddenly it flew open and an old man with a weathered ruddy face appeared croaking in a sour voice, “What the fook do you want?”
The smile dripped off my face like yellow matter custard.
Paul laughed and said, “Johnny we just came by to see you and have a chat.”
“What do you want to talk to me for? I got nuthin’ to say.”
“Well, Chris here would like to hear about when you played with the Beatles.”
“The Beatles? Yeah, I played with the Beatles, and they were shite! They could hardly play their fookin’ instruments. Pretty boys is all they were.”
I was taken aback by Johnny’s statement. I was so used to hearing everybody say that the Beatles were gods that it was almost blasphemy to hear someone who’d played with them say they sucked.
But when I thought about it, I understood where Johnny was coming from. I’ve heard of a dozen wrestlers that never quite made it talking the same way about me.
“Jericho is the shits! He can’t work—he just got lucky!”
Most of the time they were simply bitter because they never made it, and Johnny was the same way. His band the Big Three was also managed by Brian Epstein, but they didn’t hit the big time and Johnny was still resentful about it.
“The Big Three could outplay the Beatles and we could outsing them too! And Ringo … he left Rory Storm completely fooking hanging so he could run off and join the Beatles. He’s a right shithouse to have done that!!”
I thought Johnny might have a better disposition if I changed the subject to what he was doing now.
“Are you still playing, Mr. Hutch?”
He responded grumpily, “No, I don’t fookin’ play anymore. There’s no reason for a sixty-five-year-old man to get up on a stage and make a fool of himself.”
I walked right into another shithouse when I said innocently, “I saw McCartney live a couple of months ago and he sounded amazing.”
That brought back the fire and Johnny turned into a Blue Meanie once again. He stared a hole right through me and said slowly, “Really? Well, the next time you see McCartney, you tell him I said he’s a fookin’ wanker.”
Um, okay. So the next time I talk to Paul McCartney—which will be the first time I talk to him—I’ll have to remember to open the conversation by saying, “Hey Paul, nice to meet you. By the way, Johnny Hutch in Liverpool said to tell you you’re a fookin’ wanker.”
We stood there for a few seconds in awkward silence until Ed and I decided it was time to leave the good day sunshine personality