Allan Williams is... The Fool On The Hill ...

how the beat went on after his big Beatles blunder by Lew Baxter 'Well on the way, head in a cloud, the man of a thousand voices talking perfectly loud But nobody ever hears him or the sound he appears to make and he never seems to notice But the fool on the hill sees the sun going down And the eyes in his head see the world spinning round' the Beatles: The Fool on the Hill PRAXIS

A Barge Pole Press Production 2003 Dedicated to all those who think that there's no hope First Edition published in Great Britain 2003 by Praxis in association with Guy Woodland (71 Prenton Road West, Wirral, CH42 9PZ, England, UK) www.praxispublications.co.uk copyright Lew Baxter August 2003 The right of Lew Baxter to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988 This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. A catalogue for this book is available from the British Library ISBN: 0-9531995-1-7 Production and design, Praxis Publications, Lesley Reith; jacket design Rune Lund, Oslo; cover photography by Terry Mealey; other photographs by Guy Woodland and thanks to the Liverpool Daily Post & Echo for permission to use photographs where depicted Printed and bound by Book Print SL, Barcelona, Spain

Contents Acknowledgements Some of the Scenes 1 - prologue: the charmer and chancer who John Lennon asserted was the main man 2 - missing at the Cavern - again - and those early Beatles days that led to the crazy, steamy hut character building Hamburg nights 3 - how the cops and council wimps screwed up Allan's - and Britain's -first open air pop festival 4 - the tale of the bull's testicles and 'rocking' adventures on the Spanish Costas 5 - a spell in a Welsh jail looms and hard days nights at the Blue Angel as celebrities line up to be insulted 6 - yet for all those friends and lovers, there is no one compared to Beryl Adams and Bob Wooler 7- letting rip in Russia and Georgia as Allan's 'new' Beatles-Blitz plan collapses into a shambles 8 - Allan tells Blitz to f**k off, just like the Fab Four, but 'at least they could play'.. .and gives the Russians a run for their roubles while painting Moscow red 9 - the frolics continue in Moscow as Allan is nearly murdered by a jealous husband and is then accused of stealing a war hero's medal 10 - the endless long and winding road peddling those Mop Top memories across the globe but banned from America's biggest Beatlesfest! 11 - Yoko gets an ear bashing from Allan as she makes an urgent early morning telephone call from New York, then a Jacaranda musical hits the skids in the Big Apple 12 - Allan gets a rollicking from Yoko as he tries to flog her 'stolen' rare Beatles BBC film footage but he insists... 'Hey I It was just borrowed, sort of...' 13 - 'sure the two surviving Beatles are my buddies, I hope'.. .although Paul McCartney might argue differently after the 'Leather Trousers' fiasco 14- showbiz courses through Allan's blood thanks to his promoter Dad, who might well have booked McCartney's father's band 25 - Jane Asher scoffs at Allan's 'pecker' after she watches in awe as he simulates sex - in the nude -with a goat on the stage of the National Theatre! 16 -the beat goes on and Allan swears that he'll probably see them all off.. .apart from his blood brother White Cloud, chief of the Ojibway tribe Backward into the future by Peter Grant The Sting in the Tale - the day Allan gave Bill Haley a rocket... and the sack! Sources and bibliography

Acknowledgements There are so many people across the world who have been a part of the Allan Williams saga, or at least a witness, who willingly - apart from a handful who became a tad hysterical and had to be put down - shared their tales of glorious escapades and even more who offered. Regrettably space - and time - denied everyone who wanted the chance to set out their stall personally. Thanks anyway. I'm sure you will all recognise the sketches as they unfold into a tapestry of mayhem and fun, and now and then sadness. Amongst those who did confide their fondness and frustrations the closest were Allan's dearest friend Beryl Adams, Brian Epstein's first secretary, who died so tragically before we went to press and his old sparring partner Bob Wooler, the former Cavern disc jockey who has also sadly passed away. Thanks also to Peter 'Shady' Grant, Terry 'Mr Grumpy' Mealey, Phil 'Tosh' Key, Arabella MclntyreBrown, Guy Woodland, Colin Hunt, Bill Heckle, Dave Jones, Ulf Kruger, Rune Lund, Lord (David) Puttnam, Spencer Leigh, Yoko Ono, Ken Bennett, Jim Baxter, Ian Thomas, Lesley Reith, Sean Newman, Pete Best, Rex Makin, Billy Butler, Frank Loughlin, Mike McCartney, Tony Hall, June Lornie, Rob Fennah, Rocco Buonvino, Angie Sammons, Jennie and Jonny Baxter, Ronan Wilmot. And naturally the dear patrons of the Poste House and Grapes public houses in Liverpool and other dens of iniquity all over the planet where Allan has enjoyed or initiated the craic. If anyone feels affronted at not being mentioned, then please have a word with Allan - if you dare. As John Lennon said in 1973, 'We're playing mind games forever'. Lew Baxter Glyndyfrdwy Wales, UK August 2003

1 - prologue: Allan Williams is the charmer and chancer who John Lennon asserted was the main man and the guy Paul McCartney agreed gave the greatest pop band ever a kick-start WAYWARD, boisterous and a wacky wildcard is a neat package to sum up the personality of the man who injudiciously - perhaps insanely - let the Beatles slip through his fingers. And more than forty years later that decision is still a heated and compelling talking point amongst incredulous fans, friends and family scattered across the globe. After wantonly ditching the Beatles and flippantly warning Brian Epstein not to touch them with a 'fucking barge pole' and that he'd be better off giving them a wide berth, you might assume that the Fab Four's first manager Allan Williams has tottered through life fuming and foaming with bitter, twisted regret. Although infamously regarded as 'The Man Who Gave The Beatles Away' he jeers that in fact he sacked them. This line is usually thrown gratuitously into the conversation with one of his saucy grins. He was their manager from the middle of 1959 through to late 1961 but had a raging bust up over disputed commission payments from their latter Hamburg gigs. "They were getting 100 a session between them and becoming swell-headed. They decided not to pay me my 10%. I was livid as I took them on when no one else wanted to know." Furious at what he interpreted as a disloyal betrayal, he had a blistering row with John Lennon snarling that the Beatles would never work again. Instead he's the one whose employment record has been rather precarious, bordering on the chaotic. "Yeh, I think they won that one, as there's only me worrying about a pension," he gurgles, the sound similar to water glugging down a plughole. It was amidst the seedy strip joints and drinking dens squeezed between the German port city's Reeperbahn and the Elbe River, in the notorious St Pauli red light quarter, that the Beatles forged and honed the distinctive style that was to make them fabulously rich, famous and a global phenomenon. Allan was to stare in stunned amazement from the wings - often short of a penny or two - as the scruff-bag band he had termed 'coffee bar layabouts' emerged from Germany as one of the greatest pop acts in history Yet it was all thanks to Allan Williams. John Lennon - and the other lads - said as much years later, their spat long forgotten. Sure it was Hamburg that did it, not the now immortal Cavern Club in Liverpool as Lennon confirmed after reading journalist Bill Marshall's first deliciously irreverent semi-biographical book about Allan's 'mishtayk': The Man Who Gave The Beatles Away; published thirty years ago and now long out of print. The still much lamented Lennon remarked: Tor those who want to find out what it took to become a famous Beatle, Allen (sic) Williams book is the only book that can give eyewitness insight into the making of the Beatles. Obviously everyone does not have the same memory, and certain events/people, I do not remember in any way.. .but a lot of it brought back a very important part of my life, I laughed a lot.' Ever the diplomat, bearing in mind Lennon's allusion to selective memory, Liverpool pop historian Spencer Leigh wrote, in a book about Pete Best in 1998 called 'Drummed Out', that Paul McCartney had cautiously declined to add his accolades to Allan's contemplations, commenting: I've got to be careful here, whatever I write will be quoted on the back of the paperback (book). Some parts of this book are partly true. No, completely false'. Allan rants that he didn't ask McCartney to sign the book. "Yeh, I did go to Lennon but not Paul. I knew he'd say no. Sure he made some comments when it came out, basically saying it was true but was quick off the mark to stress 'it wasn't me folks who pissed on the nuns'; a true story about the

time the rest of the lads went a bit berserk in Hamburg. "And I notice that Spencer did include Lennon's remarks when asked if it was a true account of what it was like to be a Beatle in those days. He replied, 'Yes, mostly true'. Ergo, my case rests." In some ways The Fool on the Hill is a sequel to that earlier tome; which was also a volume of anecdote and reportage that many of his critics and enemies dismissed as a tissue of lies and obfuscation; fantasy and invention. Well, with hindsight and remarks by the Beatles to support that claim, apparently it wasn't, at least not all of it. Williams, battered by the booze or sober, has been banging on about this for years and perhaps this is what partly explains and gives him a sense of pride and proprietary about the group, even if he did lose out ultimately in the ensuing jostle to be sprinkled with Stardust. Yet, the chronicle of those that feverishly hop-scotched in the glittering footsteps of the Beatles is spattered with great fortune and fame, massive success, tragedy, double cross, infamy, over indulgence, regrets and deep, deep sorrow... for some. It's been a litany of scraps and bitter wrangles about who was really there at the start, inked with backstabbing, angst-rid-den rows and pleas for a fair hearing. We pick up on the story - some might say cudgel - in a bid to track Allan's often crazy, hilarious and unpredictable life in the four decades that have elapsed since he and the Beatles parted company embroiled in acrimony and bile. In other ways this is also a prequel, as Allan sadly reflects on a bewildered childhood, tormented by a fruitless search for his dead mother's grave, much as John Lennon was affected by the loss of Julia. Allan talks candidly and with self-deprecating humour about myriad madcap attempts mostly failed - to lay hands on that elusive silver lode. Gutted by what many derided as crass stupidity, Allan Williams could easily have drifted into deep depression, winding up as a melancholy, boozy bar bore: an ageing crusty crank relentlessly moaning about his bad luck. Yet today nothing could be further from that supposed reality. Instead of being a disappointed, angst-ridden old man - and he's now cantering well into his 70s - he is one of the most colourful and charismatic, if frequently disparaged, figures in the seemingly never-ending circus of the Beatles. Consigned to the footnotes of history he has lived by his wits in a variety of occupations and scams from plumber to fridge salesman, flogger of encyclopaedias and dealer in dubious antiques; to freelance showbiz promoter and, most pertinently, a purveyor of Beatle folklore and myths. For the record he was also once bankrupt. It must have hurt Allan full sore that bleak, wintry morning around the middle of the 1980s when he reached what must surely have been the nadir of his topsy-turvy life. He could be found forlorn and round shouldered queuing to sign up on the dole amongst the ranks of the jobless; this cherubicfaced, greying man on the wrong side of 50, broke but not beaten. As he shuffled along the line someone shouted out: 'Hey, I know you, mate. You're the daft bastard who gave away the Beatles'. He sniggers that there are folk who've shot themselves for less. But Allan has a suitcase full of lampooning, self-parodying wit to marshal him through the depths of despair; and he also possessed a notion that perhaps he'd still only scratched the surface of his capacity for disaster. He was right there. A dozen or so years ago - at a time when Allan reckoned he'd only earned a paltry 160 in twelve months from his Beatles related ventures - he was given yet another new lease of life. He signed up for the British government's Enterprise Allowance scheme - through which he received 40 a week to tilt his lance once more in the direction of the big time running a company he had cleverly coined Nostalgic Promotions. "My mates said it should be called Titanic Promotions Allan quipped at the time. "But I am ever the optimist - I have to be - as I don't believe there is a crock of gold at the end of any rainbow because I've slid off those bloody rainbows so many times I've got blisters on my backside." Nostalgic Promotions did indeed sink without trace. Pals and acquaintances marvel at a tenacity that has seen him constantly bounce back from

adversity. He shakes himself down, grins and is soon delivering another quirky quip or idea for turning a fast buck. He's a chancer, a charmer and a chuckle maker who sneers at the merchants of gloom: even if he is skint most of the time. When the influential Daily Mirror newspaper ran a poll a few years ago to list the 20th century's biggest business blunders Allan's decision to throw away the most influential musical group in living memory just as they were on the cusp of success came bouncing in a resounding second. He was a mere whisker away from pinching the Crown of Clowns pinned on the reluctant head of millionaire jeweller Gerald Ratner who in 1991, at a lavish business banquet, jokingly described his firm's products as crap, thus almost wrecking overnight his international commercial empire. Allan was streets ahead of the mighty Ford Motor Company, the second biggest car firm in the world, which lost US$400 million dollars after launching the ill-fated Edsel car in 1957, a model that the public hated. Two years later Ford was forced to crush thousands into scrap metal. And he was far higher in the inventory of bloomers than Ken Evans the hapless starting official for the world-renowned Aintree Grand National horse race who in 1996 failed to wave his red flag after a second false start. That error triggered a shambles that cost the racing industry millions. Yet Allan Williams simply laughs off his misfortune with a shrug. In fact he seems perversely proud that he's high up there on the pantheon of the Greatest Cock Ups of all time. He actually thinks its all a corking joke, although just occasionally the carefree guard slips and there is a slight tremor to his voice as he ruminates how he could, perhaps, have been a kind of Brian Epstein. "I would be lying through my teeth if I said that on the odd occasion I didn't feel a bit pissed off as I watched the progress of the Beatles. Sure. Sometimes really pissed off. "I think it reached a pinnacle when they were starring on Sunday Night at the London Palladium and John Lennon made that famous crack to the well to do folk in the stalls - and the royalty in the boxes - that they didn't need to clap, just to rattle their jewellery. "I remember thinking to myself, 'Fucking hell, I don't believe this. I used to manage that bastard group'. "And in a rage I picked up a cushion from the sofa and hurled it at the screen. If there had been a fucking brick handy I've have pitched that as well," he laughs." Then he snorts and his shoulders shake dismissively, never down for long. "Nah, I don't hark back too much, not really. I could be regarded as the world's biggest loser but then I look around and realise that actually I am one of the survivors. Me and Pete Best." He cackles and breaks into his still boyish grin. Despite his age he hasn't slowed down his frantic lifestyle one jot. He clearly basks in the dubious glorification of frequently incorrigible antics. Accusations that he's a lunatic hell-raiser bring a wry, but proud smile to his lips. And that's another endearing trait, for he will freely agree he's led a super charged, booze-fuelled life. Yet thanks to those Beatles days he has soaked up an adventure packed time travelling the world; his anarchic exploits are stories that have become distilled as beacons in their own right in the tally of myths about the band. After a lifetime of alcohol abuse lived on the rocky shores of excess, one might expect his visage to be ravaged, wrinkled and worn. But he isn't, not remotely, even though he did have life-saving quadruple heart by-pass surgery a few years ago. Gossip tells, though, how only a month after he nearly died on the operating table the irrepressible Williams was lashing into the vodka in his favourite drinking dens. He was nimbly back on active duty telling his fantastically hilarious and engaging tales about those early Beatle days to the fans and tourists alike: the battalions of apostles who still flock to Liverpool to wander the legendary Mathew Street in a daze. "Yeh, poor old Brian Epstein is long dead and still much lamented, the poor sod." Along with John Lennon and George Harrison too, not to mention Stuart Sutcliffe, Allan intones gravely, only the suggestion of a smile at the corners of his mouth. A lot of those people from that formative 'rose-tinted' era have died: the famous and the sidelined. Allan looks reflective, his pale blue eyes watery, because in the last few years he's also 'lost' his old mucker Bob Wooler, the celebrated Cavern Club disc jockey and raconteur, who passed away morose and alone. Then tragedy struck even closer to home when the latter-day love of his life

Beryl Adams died unexpectedly - and suddenly - in March. Her early relationship with the Beatles as Brian Epstein's first secretary is a story that resounds in its own 'write' down the pages of ages. And perversely she was also married briefly to Bob Wooler, even though he was gay. Staring into the middle distance Allan reflects on how in a delicious twist of fate he ended up with Beryl as mate and mentor and, his voice catching with dejection, muses on her untimely end at only 66 years of age after a short, savage illness. In what can only be viewed as the ultimate ironic tragedy Beryl Adams became one of only a relative handful people a year in Britain who develop the rare, untreatable and always fatal symptoms of the baffling Creutzfeldt-Jakob Disease, often hysterically called Mad Cow disease. Her rapid deterioration and death left Allan Williams genuinely bereft and for once his bubbly personality was well and truly quenched. Friends and family fretted that he might go into decline himself such was his dismay. Bill Heckle, the lugubrious organiser of the annual Mathew Street Festival and Beatles Convention in Liverpool - now rated the biggest musical jamboree in the world, attracting half a million fans every summer admits that he was concerned. "Allan was certainly badly affected by Beryl's death and he would often just come into the office to talk about her. It was really very sad." Allan and Beryl had been what is colloquially termed 'an item' for maybe a dozen years. It was a volatile relationship he admits but one that in the end he had hoped had an element of loving longevity. It wasn't to be. But he hasn't given in totally to despair. "Beryl would have wanted me to carry on. So I am, even though it's hard. Then he squeezes out a harsh, resigned laugh that swoops into a sigh. Then his head jerks up and he's on a roll again. "On reflection I don't think I would have wanted to be Brian Epstein. Well, certainly not mouldering in a fucking grave, not just yet. And anyway he only latched onto the lads because he had the bloody 'hots' for them. He loved the leather gear and lusted after Lennon, the dirty bastard." In his devil-may-care manner Allan relishes raking up the coals of controversy. "In my opinion, that was the real reason for their big break. Brian was as queer as a coot and we all knew it. Well, I certainly wasn't, unlike a lot of those on the scene in those days. And for sure the Beatles weren't. Mind you Lennon was such a fucking twisted git that he would have probably had a crack at it." That inventive, brash and brazen way with words sums up Allan Williams. No one who has come across him can deny that he sports an artful, if oft times loosely ribald, tongue and a zinging manner with a catchy turn of phrase. Even his close friends will concur that Allan is often on the slippery side of mercurial, and at times a capricious cuss. Mostly though, he can charm birds out of bushy bushes. Yet trying to pin him down to talk seriously about his off the wall lifestyle in the wake of the Beatles is often like clapping handcuffs on a wisp of wind as Allan seems constantly on the move, endlessly on the chatter to all and sundry. He willingly acknowledges that he's notched up a well-deserved reputation for blowing his own trumpet somewhat, and perhaps 'egging the pudding' for a bit of flavour with regards to those heady Beatles days. He will smirk impishly when folk might hint that some of the tales are exaggerations but bristles at accusations of being utterly untruthful. Critics - and certainly a corps of enemies who stalk the same spectral memory lanes - warn that listeners should only believe half of what he actually did, and nothing about what he says or claims to have done; and trust not a word of any promises for the future. That's terribly unfair, though, as Allan has certainly had a helluva roller-coaster of a life, driven - at times to distraction - by those early wonderfully prescient days kick-starting the saga of the Beatles. Even today, he's out chasing the main chance and dreaming up new money-spinning ideas for concerts and other showbiz events. "Well, I've got me old age to think about," he jokes. Apart from John Lennon conceding that it was Hamburg that started it all for the Beatles he - like the others in the band - was conscious that it was Allan Williams who first had the insight to send them there, albeit not fully aware of what he was unleashing; for him it was merely a chance to turn

a penny or two. "Yeh, I had a modicum of success with them then," chortles Allan, hugely bemused at the irony of how it all turned out. "But, okay, I do agree that until Brian stepped in, the boys didn't seem to be heading for the real big time or the big money. Yeh, I knew they were good and had a certain talent but I reckoned early on that they were just coffee bar layabouts. And make no mistake, that's what they were at one point." Allan knows he's a bit of a picaresque rascal but likes to think of it as largely having fun. There's certainly no intention of harming anyone, although even occasionally upsetting people with his sharp tongue is an issue that doesn't overly bother him. But most people love him for this quaintly cavalier behaviour. And he's hardly made rich pickings from his ramblings and memories of those far off Beatles days. He lives in a rented one-bedroom apartment in a managed housing block for the elderly in south Liverpool, barely a spit from the River Mersey. Sure, he agrees he's seen better times but he is, if anything, philosophical and hugely pragmatic. "I have got a stash of memorabilia like original contracts and other stuff that my rivals prefer to think is invention. Well, we will see about that. These items are locked away in a bank vault and one day I will haul them out. I bet those arse-holes will really be pissed off then." Yet for all his admitted 'faults' Allan Williams is inarguably an essential living ingredient of the Beatles folklore. He is also richly amusing company on most occasions. This is why goggle-eyed fans from lands as far apart as Brazil in South America to Norway and cities as disparate as New York, Moscow or Tokyo in Japan, amongst others across the globe, happily hand over their bucks to listen in awe to his tale of woe tinged with the offbeat. Most know that a lot of what Allan is pitching at them is opportunist tosh but they love it and seek him out because he tells the stories with the flourish and panache of a showman. Allan Williams can sit in the renowned Grapes pub in Liverpool's Mathew Street and hold court for hours; and he does sure as hell give them value for money. They want stories to flesh out their dreams and faith. Something to persuade them that this obsession with the Beatles is appropriate: even deserved. And Allan fits the bill perfectly. Whose to say he is wrong, if maybe a little off the mark on a couple of ancient, creaky facts or figures? They just want to be a part of the enchantment, and he can give them that for just a short moment of time. He's a crafter of dreams and a spinner of yarns, if sometimes he is the wily wizard centre stage of the hocus-pocus. And let's face facts: he was there at the start of it all. He got the Beatles started when they were virtual nobodies out of the tough, gritty industrial sea-port city of Liverpool He kept them fed on bacon butties and toast in the Jacaranda coffee bar. He got the Beatles to Hamburg. He's the man who during a raging row with John Lennon said that the band was 'fucking crap' and that he had a life to lead rather than waste it on them. In effect, and he still laughs uproariously at the memory, he told the Beatles to bugger off. Go their separate ways they certainly did, the boys falling straight into the beckoning and deft hands of Brian Epstein. It's common knowledge that Epstein called Allan to check out what he thought of them within days of taking them on, even though he hardly knew him. Allan, displaying his usual generosity of spirit, warned the urbane, sophisticated entrepreneur: "Look, Brian they are just a bunch of fucking wastrels and louts. Don't touch them with a fucking barge pole." Already bewitched, Epstein - fortunately - ignored Allan's entreaty and went on to turn the Beatles into living legends, although only barely basking briefly in the glory, his own short-lived life pickled with tragedy. Chirpy and cheerful is the kind of epithet that Allan Williams rejoices in despite carting around the burden that he foolishly let the Beatles slip through his grasp. "Ah, well, it's all water under the bleeding bridge," he'll mutter but then can switch into a babble of excitement as, in truth, he never tires talking about the boys; his boys as he still likes to regard them. But Allan never holds moratoriums on previous mishaps. "Don't be stupid. I am what I am," he blurts out, although there's been more than a few times he's found himself a little physically battered and bloodied, perhaps given a bit of a thumping for being too outspoken after a session in the pub. He doesn't dwell on them though unless of course he's nursing a broken limb or nose: which has

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happened, and more than once. As a result there isn't that much of an argument that a plentiful intake of strong drink has flowed through his life although he becomes swiftly indignant when this is raised, as though this is a crushing barb. His eyebrows went up in self-righteous surprise and genuine hurt at one early stage of our engaging discussions for this book, blustering that its tone: 'was making me out to be a fucking old drunk and soak'. His friends and family will no doubt hold their collective breath here, eyes perplexed as they consider his pique. However, Allan is not prone to physical violence even in drink. He's no barfly brute or a bully, no matter the mental or emotional distortion imbued by the liquor. But once his ire is roused his rasping, waspish tongue will rake across your confidence, and he can reduce his victims to a state of catatonic shock as he belligerently fandangos with a verbal truncheon. When Allan's 'turned on a 'sip' after gargling with the demon drink few can straddle the poop deck with him for long: one moment his barely lined face is jolly and full of dancing bonhomie, the next a devilish goblin is ranting, alcohol blurred eyes flashing ochre. In seconds he can reduce ordinary mortals to blubbering wrecks with withering - yet often droll - bon mots or just a casual: "Aw, well piss off then, you gobshite." These foibles are as familiar as an old raincoat to his coterie of drinking buddies in the bars of Liverpool; the familiar Grapes in Mathew Street or the White Star around the corner in Button street - all spots where the Beatles, Brian Epstein and the late Bob Wooler haunted and hunted, but oddly never Williams in those Beatles hey days. "Yeh, its true. And I couldn't be arsed going to the Cavern either, not when I had my own - better -clubs to run," jests Allan. His favourite haunt in this 'golden Autumn of his years' is the crumbling, propped up olde worlde Post House pub - a saunter from Mathew Street - where triple vodkas and whiskies can be gladhanded for around a 1 (US$1.50) a shot, to the red-eyed mob eager for the cheap gargle. It's a listed building and was due for demolition by Liverpool City Council to make way for a continental piazza style square. With Liverpool 'anointed' European Capital of Culture in 2008, it seems an eminently sensible amenity. Allan and his mates in the pub thought this all bollocks and helped organise a petition that has actually saved the joint. They even marched on the Town Hall wielding banners as though we are talking here of vitally important world threatening matters. Allan persists with his argument that the Beatles drank in the Poste House, but no one believes that apart from the occasional tourist enraptured by his garrulous embrace as he relates a 'history' that suits that day. He rattles off a smashing- yarn that Adolf Hitler would sip on a beer in the top lounge in the company of local fruit warehouse workers. This is while the soon to be roused fledgling Fuhrer allegedly lived briefly in Liverpool, striving to make a name as an artist when a young man, before returning embittered to Germany to set loose the howling dogs of the iniquitous Third Reich. This well bartered story has never been proven - not one jot - but the pub still attracts squads of incredulous, ingenuous out of towners, half convinced they are sitting at the same table as Lennon and Hitler. Naturally for these tales to be spilled they are always willing to splash out on a spare vodka or two. Allan just smiles with a knowing look. Mythology is now an essential ingredient of the ongoing Beatles Wurlitzer. And Allan's yer man for liberally pumping out the hype and the cant, all with a twinkle-eyed smile playing over his 'angelic' features. He's never actually taken any of it that seriously, he asserts, and out of the whole tribe of people who ascribe to Beatles links and associations, he is probably the only one left alive - with Bob Wooler his sparring partner for 30 years now dead - that finds it all a whimsy on a grand scale. Off guard he can be embarrassingly derogatory about the hordes of Beatles fans that flock to Mathew Street from all over the world, but never slow off the mark to snaffle a shilling out of their willing hands for a natter down nostalgia lane, rambles that are sometimes embellished by Allan just for the spice of it. For he is if anything a consummate showman, the ringmaster par excellence - he has after all appeared on stage quite a few times. Once he sang Yesterday in his surpisingly thrilling light tenor voice to an enthralled audience of Russian Beatle fans in St Petersburg. On another occasion he

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dressed up as a singing dolphin to perform in Britain's famous Cottesloe Theatre at London's English National Theatre; and simulated sex with a goat. Williams is inclined to chuckle at slights on his character yet can be as equally peppery and petulant about his foes and friends alike, worse when the booze has taken its grip and loosened the banter that can easily slide into spleen, allowing his trademark cackle to rip forth. He doesn't mean it, though, and the next day is often contrite. Well, at least before he sets out on another marvellous adventure. Few who meet Allan Williams forget him. This was underlined when only recently he bumped into Lord (David) Puttnam at the launch of Mike McCartney's latest photographic exhibition. The erstwhile highflying movie mogul Puttnam the Killing Fields, Chariots of Fire - was on a flying visit to Liverpool to officially unveil the display at the Museum of Liverpool Life. Mike McCartney is very fond of Allan, and it is rumoured - even commonly acknowledged - that he has kept tabs on him over the years for his elder brother, and as the ceremony began Allan was soon into benevolent barracking. McCartney was bemused and David Puttnam grinned broadly as he recognised Williams in the happy throng. Soon absorbed in breezy banter - clearly old chums - Puttnam was heard to beg Allan's forgiveness for letting him down over a film deal years back. Listeners overhearing the exchange were spellbound. 'The idea was that we would make a film of my life and Dave Puttnam was very keen on it. We had a few meetings and everything seemed hunky dory. Then nothing. Everything went quiet. Next thing I know Dave's making film after bleeding film but nothing about me. Then I hear recently that he became a Lord." As they shared a joke Allan, juggling a glass brimful of red wine, gently squeezed Lord Puttnam's arm and assured him it was fine. He didn't hold a grudge. "But perhaps I'll give you a call next week and let's see if we can finally get some fucking action going," was Allan's waggish riposte as Puttnam threw his head back and roared with laughter, half aghast at the profanity.

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2 - missing at the Cavern - again- and those early Beatles days that led to crazy, trail-blazing Hamburg IN the winter of 1999 Paul McCartney was quietly relaxing in the band room in Liverpool's Cavern Club before a rare performance in his home city to promote a new rock n' roll album, Run Devil Run. Glancing up he heard someone wonder what he thought these days of Allan Williams. After all Paul, said the colleague, he was your first manager before Brian Epstein, wasn't he? Did you ever think about what happened to him?' McCartney just smiled enigmatically. Yet he apparently employs a smidgen of warm regard for Williams as the Liverpool Echo discovered when he casually remarked during a recent interview: "Allan Williams? Allan, hey. Al, oh yeh. He tells a good tale does Al," and Sir Paul chuckled affectionately, clearly amused. He was, perhaps, referring to how Allan rather exaggerated the tale - amongst a veritable directory of others - of a supposed hell for leather scrap between the former Beatle and Stuart Sutcliffe all those years ago in Hamburg. In reality, it seems McCartney gave Sutcliffe a gentle, friendly tap on the shoulder. Typically Allan saw it differently and by the time it had hit the press and into the pages of history, the incident had been blown up into a full-scale barney of a fight. Allan insists it was worse than McCartney remembers: "He had Stuart by the throat and was going fucking ape shit," he told Liverpool Echo writer Peter Grant. "I was there, I should know," he spluttered. "Erm, so was McCartney," was the pithy reply. Allan merely grinned. As McCartney and his backing musicians - including Dave Gilmour from Pink Floyd - were firing up to start the concert he was unaware that outside the Cavern's steel shuttered doors Allan Williams was having a blagging, finger-wagging row with a bunch of burly bouncers. As this was Paul's first appearance in the Cavern for 36 years there was a stampede for tickets but only 350 had been printed, and invited guests were included in the total, as well as chosen media from across the world. Allan, of course, wasn't on the list; shades of the Beatles's first movie Hard Days Night premiere in 1964 when he was similarly snubbed. But on that occasion, along the lines of a farce that could have been a scene from the movie, the film's scriptwriter, his pal Alun Owen who later became his son Justin's godfather, smuggled him in. The Cavern show was being hailed as a truly memorable event and was to be broadcast on the Internet and televised live to Japan. It was also being filmed for a video. This was a barnstormer down the musical memory lane of Merseybeat and the early Beatles days with McCartney in ripping good form, He even blasted out I Saw Her Standing There while massed thousands of fans stared up joyously glassy-eyed at the giant screen in Liverpool's Chavasse Park close to the waterfront where the show was being relayed. In the bleak mid December chill night air, pacing the cobbles in Mathew Street Allan Williams was grizzling loudly about not being allowed into the gig to say hello to . "I just want to welcome him back to Liverpool, that's all, you great bollocky balloon heads," he snarled at the bouncers barring the way into the famous club. They growled a warning back at him. He winks and chortles: "Well, sure I'd had a drink or two and I think the minders reckoned I might be a bit difficult to handle. Ha, ha, ha." His feisty responses are often spiced with a blast of blasphemy and spattered with four letter words. But there's no spark of any real rancour. And with his raucous 'bugger you' laugh echoing around the street he stumbles off to watch the show on a giant video screen in the De Coubertin's Sports bar around the corner. What he didn't know was that McCartney had been told that the veteran, venerable former disc jockey Bob Wooler - who'd introduced Epstein to the Beatles - was also hanging around outside the Cavern. He didn't have a ticket either. For years Bob and Allan were a renowned comedic double act, forever sniping and snarling at each, and as erstwhile business partners they trawled the globe peddling reminiscences of their one time Beatles connections. "Bob Wooler? Yeh, sure invite him in," Sir Paul told his aides. And from the stage McCartney even

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acknowledged the presence of the ailing Wooler who stood, stooped at the back of the cellar club even if it is a reconstruction - where once he'd regularly announced the Fab Four as they began the rise to fable and fortune. "Hey, and here tonight is Bob Wooler, folks. Hi Bob," shouted a breezy McCartney. In the vast confines of De Coubertin's bar, meanwhile, Allan was chatting with his lover Beryl Adams, who was Brian Epstein's first secretary when he was fashioning the Beatles into icons. She smiled and confided: "Frankly, I'm sure I could have got in to talk to Paul if I'd have wanted to. I could have gone with Robert (Wooler). But if I had, Allan would have been like a bloody banshee. He'd have gone berserk. I couldn't risk it, for Paul's sake." Williams guffaws reaching for a large vodka: "Oh, bugger off, Beryl I bet McCartney doesn't even know if you are alive or not, if he remembers you at all." That was to be a poignantly prescient jibe, as it turns out. In a sublime twist of life's little vagaries, after the show - which only lasted a brief 48 minutes McCartney trundled around to De Coubertin's bar to join the milling revellers with children Stella, Mary and James in tow along with brother Mike and old time roadie Neil Aspinall. A deafening, rousing cheer greeted him as he entered. This could have been Allan's chance for an interlude of intimacy. Ah, but 'tired and emotional' Allan had long since meandered home blissfully unaware of another missed opportunity. Probably just as well. In the definitive Anthology, devised, written and published in 2000 by the surviving Beatles themselves, the heated arguments and disputed claims about Allan Williams and his influential role with the Beatles - and there are gaggles of those with similar connections to the past who insist he played no proper part - was finally put to the test, and to rest. The Beatles cleared up the wrangle once and for all. He was their manager. No doubt about it. Indisputably. But when it was announced that the Beatles were compiling a detailed compendium of their lives and careers Allan Williams was wary and apprehensive, to say the least, about how - or even if - he would come out of it. What would they say about his early role? "Frankly I have to admit that I was shitting myself when I heard that this was to the definitive Beatles history. And told by the lads themselves. "I thought, they're gonna crucify me when it comes to the Allan Williams bit, you know. And a lot of people I knew claimed they had seen drafts and that I was in it for sure and was going to be really surprised; that I would be stuffed. "I was actually dreading it but then when it was published I realised that those bastards hadn't seen anything and were winding me up, they'd been playing games with me. "Then much to much to my surprise -1 would even say astonishment -Paul McCartney said in the first part that when they started off they'd had a manager, a Liverpool Welsh man with a high squeaky voice," but I thought that was a bit bleeding cheeky, mutters Allan falling into a mock, high pitched falsetto but clearly proud as punch. "Yeh, he said that at the time I was very good for them, a great innovator. Ha, and then George said, 'Yes he was responsible for sending us to Hamburg' and I was truly gob smacked when I read that John Lennon had commented: 'Really, yeh, he was the top man he was sending all groups all over the world, he was the man'." Part of the text in the Anthology had appeared in the famously notorious Playboy Interview with John Lennon and Yoko Ono, which had been published posthumously after Lennon's murder by Playboy Magazine in January 1981. "I winced a bit at that because I had told Lennon to fuck off, that as far as I was concerned the Beatles would never work again. So there hadn't been any need for him to be kind, even in that roundabout way. And I never knew he felt that way. "I've never said this, probably didn't even admit it to myself, but I did empathise with Lennon because I realised he was tormented. He had a similar childhood to myself, a very mixed up one. He'd never had the love of a mother and his father was a bit of a prat who didn't care. It was similar to me. My dad remarried and I never knew my mother. He rarely knew his mother until it was too late. Then a drunken bloody policeman on Menlove Avenue near Mendips killed her.

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"So, sure I identified with Lennon more so than Paul. I know his own mum died too soon as well but at least he did have a loving dad. I was brought up in the 1930s - in the Great Depression - by all sorts of dad's sisters in a terraced house with one cold water tap and no proper bath, just a galvanised tin one "Of course I was so pleasantly surprised as there was no shit in the book at all. Then when the television Anthology was broadcast they even showed a photograph of me. And I've got a copy in the house to prove it," he chortles. "Naturally I was cock a hoop at this, I don't mind telling you, folks. All those people over the years who've knocked me, the likes of Bill Harry (founder and editor of the 1960s weekly Merseybeat newspaper and now a 'Beatle historian') who has actually gone on record as saying I wasn't the manager. "Who do you believe? The Beatles put that book together themselves because they were so pissed off with people writing crap about them, even people who'd never met them. So they put the record right for the first time. And I'm in there. There's not a word about so many of the hangers on, people like Sam Leach (acknowledged, though, as a promoter in the era) who claims he was their manager at one stage. It was all bollocks." Published under the auspices of the Apple Corp - with consulting editor the one time Beatles press supremo Derek Taylor, as it happens another of Allan's 'mockers' - Paul McCartney recalls in the Anthology that in May of 1960 London impresario Larry Parnes came to Liverpool on the prowl for new talent. He had become acquainted with Allan earlier that year when Williams had successfully handled one of the first big beat concerts of the period at the Liverpool Boxing Stadium, which in his usual flamboyant manner he had grandly called The Greatest Show Ever To Be Staged. This was a deal with Parnes that was to star Gene Vincent and Eddie Cochran who a few months before had taken the Liverpool Empire by storm in one of a series of nationwide shows put on by Larry Parnes. Gasping at the energy on stage and the audience reaction, that show had fuelled Allan's ambitions to become a top-notch promoter himself. He persuaded Parnes to partner another show with him, promising that he would handle the local end. Parnes agreed and Allan furiously contacted and booked all the local bands he knew as support for Vincent and Cochran. "The groups realised that this was a great opportunity and I was convinced this was my big break. Tickets were selling like hot cakes. Shit, I thought, I'm on my way. There was the smell of big bucks in this venture. "But only days before it was due to be unleashed on a sell out, wildly enthusiastic Liverpool audience, disaster struck. Where have you heard that before, folks? "The two rock n roll stars had been in a car crash and Eddie Cochran was dead. I was stunned. "Parnes told me that although the injured Gene Vincent felt he could perform it was probably best to cancel the show. Stuff that, I thought. I'll be bloody lynched in Liverpool. The whole city was buzzing at the prospect. "So I decided to go ahead, persuaded Parnes that Gene Vincent would be a wow whatever his physical state and if he was game, then let him do the show almost as a tribute to Eddie Cochran. That swung it, I think. Then I wheeled in other Liverpool bands to fill the bill. Gerry and the Pacemakers were big local hits and I got Rory Storm and the Hurricanes and Derry Wilkie on board with a few others. "I didn't reckon the Beatles were up to it at that point. They sat in the audience. I often wonder if they sat there seething, wishing they could have got up." The show was a terrific success and Allan was smitten and convinced he had found his niche in life as an impresario. "Although Gene Vincent was the undoubted star our local bands had caused a sensation as well. There was this weird, raw response from the crowds in the Stadium; the place was throbbing with an earthy excitement. Phew, I thought, we've hit the jackpot Parnes had gone back to London mightily impressed and instructed his assistant Mark Forster to write to Allan asking him to set up a series of auditions. A couple of his singers were embarking on tours and he needed new blood to

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back them. Among his contemporaries in the Tin Pan Alley of the time Parnes had a reputation for changing the names of his singers to infuse a ringing assertiveness and colour, the likes of Duffy Power and Vince Eager amongst others. One of his signings was the former Liverpool tugboat hand, Ronnie Wycherley who was transformed into Billy Fury, a crooning, sultry figure heading for the top with a string of his own compositions. Ironically his own career was largely stifled by the advent of the Beatles and their ilk but latterly - twenty years after his tragic death - he is now idealised as the epitome of the early sixties music making epoch. In complete contrast Parnes also had another Scouser on his books but had chosen the softer moniker of Johnny Gentle for the tall, lanky lad christened John Askew who'd been born and raised off Liverpool's tough Scotland Road. Marty Wilde was another with a tempestuous surname that was corralled in Parnes' growing stable. Amongst his backing band was the singer Tony Sheridan who later met up with the Beatles in Hamburg, where he was for a while a crowd puller in the Top Ten Club. It was there that he invited them to play as his backing group on the episodic record My Bonnie, the spark that ostensibly fired up Brian Epstein's interest in the then Silver Beatles. But beforehand, back in Liverpool the Beatles were actually lined up to audition for Billy Fury. McCartney - who years later became friendly with the singer and was for a while his neighbour in St John's Wood in London - remarked that Billy Fury was probably the least furious guy you have to meet. "A sweet Liverpool guy, the first local man who made it, in our eyes." It was to Allan Williams that Parnes automatically turned to supply a venue to audition a couple of the bands and Billy Fury was with him, keen to check out the groups and their sounds. Allan had recently taken a lease on the dingy, rather run down four storey Wyvern Social Club in Seel Street in Liverpool. He had visions of it as a sophisticated nightclub and was on the verge of changing its name to the Blue Angel, as a tribute to Marlene Dietrich. "I really loved that film The Blue Angel and thought what a great name for my new club. So I got in touch with the Institute of Films and bought up stack of old photographs of Marlene Dietrich. I had them blown up huge and that was the club's main decor. It was very striking." He wanted it to be the plushest venue in the city and it certainly struck a chord with the burgeoning social scene in Liverpool. "Yeh, soon the stars and celebrities were knocking at the door. And I reckoned the large basement rooms would be ideal for the auditions that Parnes was after," explains Allan. As it turned out the Beatles passed the audition for Fury. But Parnes wasn't that keen on Stuart Sutfcliffe's admittedly duff bass playing. It is common knowledge how Lennon told Allan, Took Al, its all of us, or none.' Instead the group were hired to back Johnny Gentle. That's all water long passed, says Allan, and he points out that McCartney - in the Anthology - is pretty clear about the sequence of events: 'Allan Williams ran the Blue Angel and the Jacaranda. He was the little local manager (little in height, that is - a little Welshman with a little high voice - a smashing bloke and a great motivator, though we used to take the mickey out of him). He held the auditions in conjunction with Larry Parnes. All the groups in Liverpool were there and we were one of the bands.' George Harrison also remembered the occasion: They were going to use the Blue Angel, which in those days was called the Wyvern Social Club. When we arrived at the club our drummer hadn't shown up, so Johnny Hutchinson, the drummer with Cass and the Casanovas, sat in with us. I don't think we played particularly well or particularly badly. Later Lennon was to recall: 'We'd been playing around in Liverpool for a bit without getting anywhere, trying to get work, and the other groups kept telling us, 'You'll do all right, you'll get work some day. And then we went to Hamburg. George takes up the tale: 'We'd heard about musicians getting gigs in Stuttgart, where there were American army bases. We knew that those kinds of gigs were available around Germany, so it was an exciting thought.

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'The story behind our going there was that another Liverpool group, Derry and the Seniors, had given up their jobs to do a gig for Larry Parnes. And when they didn't get it, they were all really annoyed so they decided to go to London to beat Larry up Influential in Liverpool - and cutting a dash with his fancy beloved Jaguar motors - although he self effacingly confides that they were all second hand models - and stylish life style, Allan Williams was as canny as ever and advised Derry Wilkie that having a bust up with Parnes wasn't a wise move and instead suggested: "If you are going to London you should take your instruments and play." So he volunteered to drive them down to the capital. Displaying his usual charm and verve he got them easily into the now legendary 2'is - the club where Tommy Steel had been discovered - where they went down a treat with fans that'd rarely seen bands from North of Watford. "They never did beat up Larry Parnes," laughs Allan. They were there when German promoter Bruno Koschmider - in town checking out the action for potential groups to play his own club the Kaiserkeller in Hamburg - spotted Derry's bunch. Impressed he struck a deal with Allan and hired them on the spot. They ended up working for him for a couple of months. Allan still chuckles at the sight of Bruno Koschmider who was a crippled ex-circus clown and fireeater who owned a number of strip clubs and porn cinemas in Hamburg. Once again Allan claims to have been misrepresented in his depiction of Koschmider. "Seems I supposedly said - and this was recorded in a book - that Bruno was a grade A thug and almost certainly a former member of the Gestapo. Crap. I never did. He was just a gay old circus clown. Sure I knew he was gay, he ran a transvestite club for chrissakes, as well as the Kaiser Keller. But as far as I know he was never a member of the bleeding Gestapo. "He wanted live music for his clubs but the German bands could only play 'ooompah' style music the days of the Rattles and the like were a few years off - or rousing military marches. "And he wasn't the type to fork out for American bands. He was a bit of a tight-arsed cheapskate if the truth is known," laughs Allan. Koschmider had heard that London was revving up as a centre for musical talent and headed over there to see just where and what the buzz might be. He was astonished and jubilant to bump into Allan Williams. He had first met him in Hamburg when Williams was on the trail of his West Indian steel band who had left him in the lurch in Liverpool, abandoning their residency in the Jacaranda Club. "They were called the Royal Caribbean Steel band because they said one of them had once played before some royal person or others. I thought that a load of codswallop, but what the hell." The boys had heard from foreign sailors who landed in Liverpool that there was money to be made in Hamburg for unusual nightclub acts. One night, taken in by the lure of making a fortune they agreed to scamper off with a German merchant seaman who promised to introduce them to the right people. And so the next day they landed in the seaport of Hamburg where Bruno Koschmider grasping that their singular and strange style, especially in Germany at that time, was a sure fire winner, booked them into his club where they were a huge hit. Allan was in strangling mood when he found out they'd done a bunk. "Naturally I was considerably annoyed when I arrived at the Jac that night and found that the band, originally from Trinidad, had buggered off, done a midnight flit as its called. They were my main band and I'd had a steel band long before they became popular. "I decided I would chase after this bunch of disloyal bastards and sort them out. I landed in Germany in a right blazing mood and gave them a bloody good telling off but you couldn't stay mad at these boys for long, their sunny dispositions were infectious and we soon made it up. "Then one night we where sharing a drink and they said, 'Allan, look there is a huge demand for groups here, you should really think about sending some of those bands you manage in Liverpool over here.' "I didn't think too much of it at the time but now I got my serious head on with Bruno over a few

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drinks in the '2is' in Soho and agreed a deal. I would send Derry Wilkie over to test the water." Back in Hamburg, Koschmider picked up quickly that there was something slightly different about this Liverpool outfit. AH the kids were rushing to see them and revitalising his increasingly moribund Indra club which was kept going by a steady stream of teenage striptease girls. The prospect of upping the ante made the burly German lick his lips. Within weeks he had contacted Allan Williams again: "Look, we want another Liverpool band to play at the Indra. Can you help?" This time Williams decided to pack off the by now renamed Beatles -they had shed the Silver appendage - that comprised John Lennon, Paul McCartney, Stuart Sutcliffe, George Harrison and Pete Best, a new drummer hired specifically when the Hamburg season was first mooted. Pete Best's mother ran the Casbah club in West Derby where the Beatles in their earliest incarnation as The Quarry Men had mucked around playing a few gigs in previous summers. Best had then formed his own band the Blackjacks but it wasn't working. When he got the chance to join the Beatles in Hamburg wild horses couldn't have held him back. He was to be a member of the group for two years before being unceremoniously dumped in favour or Ringo Star. To this day Williams has remained largely ambivalent about the event, one day insisting he preferred Starr, the next that Best was okay. George Harrison remembers Allan Williams speaking to them and offering this gig but insisting that Bruno wanted a five piece group and that the needed to find a drummer, and fast. "It was bizarre but they didn't have a full time drummer, it had been a series of guys just virtually standing in," explained Allan. George Harrison confirmed this demand in the Anthology: 'We needed another person, since there were only the three of us, and Stuart. We were excited, but we thought, Paul isn't really the drummer. Where do we get one? Then I remembered a guy I'd met who'd been given a drum kit for Christmas. His name was Pete Best, and the Casbah club was in his mum's basement. The Beatles were on their way to Hamburg and history was in the making but largely because of a fluke, reckons Allan. "There were a lot of good groups in Liverpool and I was fairly certain the Beatles could do the business." McCartney takes a stronger slant, believing they were a promoter's dream, especially as the British groups didn't really know the ropes and could be palmed off with low wages. The lads didn't actually think they were that low, though, as McCartney commented: 'We were told 'You can go to Hamburg and get 15 a week'. Now 15 a week was more than my dad earned, and in fact our teachers didn't earn more than that. So Hamburg was a real offer. It was as if we'd found a profession and the money was there too.. .the famous stripper land of the Reeperbahn, known to be a dodgy place with gangsters and where sailors were frequently murdered.' The story is well known how Allan crammed everyone in a battered van and headed off for Hamburg little knowing that ahead was a lifetime of adventures.. .and disappointments. "Well, I had to drive them to save money as Koschmider wouldn't pay the fares but I had no intention of staying on for the two month long contract." For years Lennon used to laugh: 'Yes, Allan took us over and we went through Holland and did a bit of shoplifting there. (The wailing mouth organ from Love Me Do was allegedly part of their haul). I grew up George Harrison added: 'We probably met with the van outside Allan Williams' club, the Jacaranda. There were the five of us and then Allan, his wife Beryl and Lord Woodbine. It was cramped. The van didn't even have seats. We had to sit on our amplifiers. We drove down Harwich and got the boat to the Hook of Holland. Driving through Holland, I remember we stopped at Arnhem where all the people had parachuted out to their deaths. That is the cemetery where Allied soldiers - parachutists largely - killed in the Second World War are buried. It was the site of the now famous photograph of the first trek to Hamburg, featuring a darkly bearded Allan Williams, the boys, his wife Beryl and Lord Woodbine. Missing from that picture is John Lennon because he was the one nominated to take it, according to Allan. "There has always been this belief that he didn't want to be associated with a war memorial because he was

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anti-war. Crap. He took the picture." Once in Hamburg Bruno Koschmider met them and put them up in room at the back of a cinema called the Bambi Kino, at the very end of a street called the Grosse Freiheit. "Yeh, the lads were wide-eyed as the Reeperbahn and Grosse Freiheit were the best thing they'd ever seen: clubs, neon lights, restaurants, prostitutes, bars and entertainment galore," laughs Allan. "They were overwhelmed by it at first, even though they were taken aback slightly by the seedy side, like the conditions they had to live in when they first got there, but what the hell it all turned out fine in the end. And how!" He smiles enigmatically. At first they played in the Indra club, which had a big elephant over the street to signify India. Later the Beatles were to muse that it was ironic and funny the way India was to later have an impact on them - aka the Maharishi Yogi and especially George Harrison's collaborations with the likes of the sitar playing Ravi Shankar. It amused them that their first gigs - their first major venue - had an Indian name. The Indra was an establishment of shady ill repute, Allan confirms, located on the Grosse Freiheit, a narrow cobbled street of strip clubs and working class bars in the St Pauli red light district. It was, he argues in a sort of bogus mitigation, at the quiet end of the bustling street away from the Reeperbahn that leads into the city centre proper. That low-life area was separated from the River Elbe by a maze of tiny streets and alley ways filled with more bars, clubs and brothels, the latter notable for the gaggles of attractive young women who plied their wares almost half naked, sitting and gesticulating to the punters from large picture windows, much as they do in the officially sanctioned red light quarter of Amsterdam to this day. Allan still remembers the details of that contract which insisted on a prompt start and that worked out at around 2.50 per day per man. "And it stipulated that I would be paid 10% commission from the weekly wage bill," he retorts, reminding everyone that he reckons the Beatles still owe him 15 for part of that contract, This has been an ongoing if mostly jocular joust, with McCartney especially. Soon the Beatles were playing in the supposedly more 'upmarket' Kaiserkeller and they were joined by two other Liverpool outfits, a return gig by Derry Wilkie and the Seniors along with Rory Storm and the Hurricanes, featuring Ringo Starr as their drummer. "I think I said to the lads - the Beatles - 'Hey. You'd better pull your effing socks up because Rory Storm and the Hurricanes are coming in, and you know how good they are. They're going to knock you for six." For the next two years or so beginning on 17th August 1960, the Beatles were to divide their time between Liverpool and Hamburg. Though their later residency at the Cavern Club in Liverpool would be of vital importance in building a legion of loyal local fans, it was the 800 frantic hours on stage in Hamburg that transformed them into a first class act, the experience that gave them that edge. This was where the Beatles image as 'wild men' evolved: black leather suits and the casual, couldn't give a damn stance. It was also the city where Paul McCartney bought his distinctive, violin shaped Hofner bass and John Lennon picked up his beloved Rickenbacker guitar. There is a short cogent comment from Stuart Sutcliffe from that time which now is choked with pathos, considering his untimely demise and the views of observers about his musical abilities, that reads: 'We have improved a thousand fold since our arrival and Allan Williams, who is here at the moment, tells us that there is no band in Liverpool to touch us.' But it was a rough and tumble situation and Allan, who regularly rubbed shoulders with the scallywags of Liverpool and was very much aware of the risks, merely shrugs: "They were young and could handle it, I was pretty sure." Yet even the worldly-wise John Lennon found it a bit over the top and remarked: 'AH these gangsters would come in - the local Mafia. They'd send a crate of champagne on stage, imitation German champagne, and we had to drink it or they'd kill us. They'd say: 'Drink, and then do "What'd I Say'...the song. We'd have to do this show, whatever the time of night. If they came in at five in the morning and we'd been playing seven hours, they'd give us a crate of champagne and we

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were supposed to carry on. 'Yeh, it was Hamburg that did it. That's where we really developed. To get the Germans going and keep it up for twelve hours at a time. We really had to hammer away. We would never have developed as much if we'd stayed at home. We had to try anything that came into our heads in Hamburg. There was nobody to copy from. We played what we liked best and the Germans liked it as long as it was loud.' After Hamburg and back in Liverpool George Harrison recalled: 'We got a gig after Allan Williams put us in touch with a guy called Bob Wooler, a compere on the dance-hall circuit. He tried us out one night and put and ad in the paper: 'Direct from Hamburg. The Beatles'. And we probably looked German, too, very different from all the other groups with our leather jackets. We went down a bomb. Lennon told friends that it was that evening that the Beatles really came out of their shell and let go. 'We stood there being cheered for the first time. This was when we began to think we were good. Up to Hamburg we'd thought we were OK, but not good enough. It was only back in Liverpool that we realised the difference and saw what had happened to us while everyone else was playing Cliff Richard shit.' Allan acknowledges that in the Anthology there is no mention of the demise of his own 'managerial role' or for that matter the split and acrimonious row when he swore at Lennon. There are extensive references to Brian Epstein and a deal leading up to his becoming their manager but nothing even about Allan warning him not to touch the band. "Well, I don't suppose every single item or incident that happened in their lives is written down there but its fairly obvious from reading it that I was involved," he declares. While many have dismissed Allan's claims as fantasy the Beatles Anthology surely confirms his presence and even a few years earlier the official biography of Paul McCartney by Barry Miles Many Year from Now, published in 1997 - adds a certain credence to his stories. Miles records: 'In July 1960, the national Sunday tabloid the People ran an expose headlined: 'The Beatnik Horror, for though they don't know it, they are on the road to hell illustrated by a carefully posed photograph taken in the flat below Stuart Sutcliffe's. This was located in a spacious and splendid row of elegant Georgian House in Gambier Terrace just opposite Liverpool's grand mock Gothic Anglican Cathedral. 'A teenage John Lennon can be seen lying on the floor. The paper commented: 'Most beatniks like dirt. They dress in filthy clothes. Their 'homes' are strewn with muck. This, for example, is the flat of a Beatnik group in Liverpool. The man on the extreme left, Allan Williams, is a little out of place in these surroundings. He is the only one who is not a beatnik and who dresses in clean clothes'. In fact, reveals McCartney and Miles, Williams was the crafty bastard who had set up the photograph; he had been managing the Silver Beetles, as they were known then, since May and was always on the look out for a bit of sly publicity; even then he wasn't' inclined to hide his proteges under bushels, so to speak. "To hell with that, no. I had pals in the newspaper business and knew that a good tale in the papers, no matter how bad it looked, was worth a few snide remarks," says Allan who at the time owned a small coffee bar club called the Jacaranda in Slater Street off Bold Street, where the group frequently hung out. It had the kind of bohemian atmosphere they enjoyed and also did a very good line in sandwiches, or 'sarnies' at they were called in the Liverpool lingua franca of the day Allan Williams already managed or acted as booking agent for a number of other acts, so it was easy for him to simply add the Silver Beetles to his list. The core of the group was now John, Paul, George and Stuart Sutcliffe. They were having problems finding a drummer. As a result of Allan Williams's involvement, they began to get gigs. In May 1960, he sent them out to back their fellow Liverpudlian Johnny Gentle, then managed by the London impresario Larry Parnes - known in the trade apparently as 'Larry Parnes, Shillings and Pence' - on a tour of Scotland. It was their first experience of the rigours of being on the road and though it was apparently a personal musical and financial disaster - the boys weren't paid a lot - they were not deterred. Indeed in the Anthology Lennon is recorded as bewailing that they only ever did about twenty

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minutes on stage as Gentle allegedly hogged the limelight in what was called the Big Beat Ballad Show. Now living in Kent, Gentle's career merely meandered along after that tour. He'd kicked it off using the cheesy handle Rick Damone before briefly joining Parnes. Allan recalls that the incident developed into a wretchedly dire trek - at least according to Beatle memories - that lasted a mere eight days and the Beatles - especially Lennon - loathed the whole thing. They trawled around dour and grim workingmen's clubs in Scotland playing second fiddle to a man they didn't rate. Perhaps that's where the title for the Beatles witty Eight Days A Week song emanated suggests Allan Williams impishly. Allan was bemused to discover that a few years ago Johnny Gentle had written a book about the experience. The blurb even suggested that McCartney said as lately as 1996 that, 'We loved it and it was invaluable experience for us'. "Seems a bit far fetched to me. I certainly didn't get that impression when they got back," says Allan. A few months after the Scottish adventure Johnny was in the audience back on Merseyside at a Beatles gig at the Grosvenor Ballroom in Wallasey. In his memoirs he recalls that they invited him to join them to sing a few numbers. The woman doling out the interval refreshments told a delighted Johnny Gentle that he was going to be as big a star as Cliff Richard. Even Gentle had the grace to reveal that the Beatles were in tucks of laughter at this. They were never great Cliff fans. Allan veers towards the sceptical over Gentle's memories. "They sure take the biscuit. Gentle only knew the lads for a few fucking days and he's banging on about it as though this was a pivotal time in their career. Bollocks," said Allan, who has little time for what he laughingly calls the 'woodwork creepers; with Beatles Parasites - shortened to BPs - his more hard-bitten jibe. In fact Gentle did try and get another short tour on the road with the Beatles but by then Allan Williams had whisked them over to Hamburg and he wasn't to meet them again until 1963 at a show in Bedford. But by then the super trouper was already glaring brightly for the Fab Four. They had a brief chat with him in their dressing room but he admits it was a strained affair. They were already on the star spangled road and had also left Allan far behind but as it turns out not forgotten, as he'd imagined. Barry Miles meanwhile continued to pile on the plaudits for Allan in Many Years From Now. He wrote: 'Williams had booked them into a series of Saturday Night, Big Beat Night, gigs at the Grosvenor Ballroom in Wallasey, across the Mersey in the Wirral; a venue famous for the violence and unpredictability of its patrons. 'Whenever he couldn't find them a booking Williams put them into his own club, the Jacaranda, but by the summer he had already found them more than three dozen gigs. The group began to dominate their lives and schoolwork took second place.' It was also Hamburg that placed the Beatles in the front line of what would become the Sixties sexual and social revolution. And it is an historical fact that it was there that they cut their first record as the fledgling Beatles. Once again that was an Allan Williams initiative that turned into a disaster, probably one of the first in a lifelong series. Years later Allan lost the only copy after a drunken spree in London's Soho. He'd tried to persuade Ringo to take part in another of his madcap ventures, a Mersey beat reunion concert. As bait he offered Ringo the last remaining copy of that old record, his first appearance with Beatles, even before he was officially yanked on board. Much to Allan's bemusement and annoyance Ringo had point blank refused. "I couldn't believe his cavalier attitude as he knew the importance of that recording and had fucking well lost his own copy years before. It was an historic work and I had been the one who agreed to Ringo playing on it "Yeh, when the lads were doing their stint at the Kaiserkeller I was keen to make a record. But it wasn't really them I wanted, not directly. You see I was interested in a singer

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called Lou Walters in Rory Storm's backing band the Hurricanes. "He had a fantastic vocal range and as I'd been trained as a singer myself I recognised that 'Wally' had great potential. Even the Beatles realised how good he was. But Rory's ego wouldn't have countered any idea of his band backing 'Wally', even though he did think highly of him. I reckoned, though, that with the Beatles and Lou Walters, we could have something really new, really different. "At the time Ringo was the drummer with Rory Storm but was also a regular drinking buddy of the Beatles who rated him very much as a drummer. They liked his style and he was certainly a lot sharper on the wit than Pete - like them - but when he got wind of what was being discussed he wasn't pleased at all. Its funny how things later turned out, isn't it?" chuckles Allan. "Just for a lark the Beatles joshed that I should make a record with Wally who was terrific on songs like Fever and Summertime. Whoa, I growled, cautiously aware that as they didn't have any money I'd been the one forking out the cash to pay for it. But over a few drinks later I began to think that it wasn't such a bad idea after all. "And the lads and Lou had already talked about it casually. Even Ringo was in on it and seemed keen. And as he had been doing the drumming on these songs it seemed only natural that he should be on the record. "One morning I told the lads that I had actually booked a small studio for the set, a little place called Akustik Studio where people could pop in a record a greeting to send to friends. It was hardly Decca or Parlophone but I snarled that I wasn't made of money. "It was behind Hamburg Central Station and even though it was on such a small scale the lads were all well into it. I've often wondered if that place is still there and if the guys running it ever realised what they had briefly in their grasp. "For me, though, the only worrying snag about the project was that someone had to tell Pete Best that Ringo would be drumming. The line the boys took in the end was that Ringo was essential because he knew Lou's numbers very well. It had a ring of truth to it. "Personally, I thought that Pete could've handled the job but the others, who seemed strangely insistent, over ruled me. Naturally, Pete was none too pleased but didn't have a choice. "And so, although we didn't know it then that was the precursor to him being permanently thrown out of the Beatles in favour of Ringo not so long after." From several accounts Lou Walters was an undistinguished sort of fellow, though. He was thin and small with brown, mousy hair and certainly didn't have the aura of a star about him. Even so Allan noted a magnetic timbre to his voice. "He might well have been unremarkable to look at but boy, could he fucking sing. He could switch from a deep bass to falsetto with a click of the fingers. Marvellous stuff. And it was this range and vocal ability that fascinated the Beatles and me," commented Allan. When all the lads and their instruments were pushed into the recording booth it was such a squeeze as Ringo was also obliged to sit in there with all his gear, which wasn't ideal in technical terms. Allan knew it certainly wasn't going to shape up as the best recording ever, and most certainly not in that primitive age of sound science. The record had to be formulated to play at 78 rpm, not even the modern 45 rpm that was becoming all the rage. "Still, I didn't mind, it was making the boys happy and I had a hunch about Lou," declares Allan. "But Lou Walters was so bloody nervous, I couldn't believe it after all his experience on stage. Then he forgot the bloody words of Summertime. I was getting on edge myself as the Beatles were due back on stage at Bruno's club and he was a stickler for punctuality. "That sounds daft, I know, considering the undisciplined way the Beatles apparently behaved usually but I didn't want them getting sacked. It could screw up my other deals. "Ringo was tapping away with his stick on the side of the snare drum and suddenly Lou launched into Fever. Everyone came in on Ringo's beat and they managed it with hardly a hitch. I was impressed. It sounded fine, great even. Well, apart from Ringo who sounded as if he was trapped inside a bleeding biscuit tin and banging two coconuts together. "It was like the hollow clip-clop of a horse trotting on the road. Everyone thought it hilarious, apart

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from Ringo. "Lou didn't even notice the 'loony tunes' aspect of the record and was very excited because overall he thought it sounded good. Frankly it was rough and as I recall it certainly didn't hit me that here was a band that was going to shake the music world to its foundations. "But I was pleased because I reckoned we actually did have a record that could maybe be marketed. Christ, when I think back now. I was the producer and the recording manager of the first record the Beatles ever made. "And what really would have made it zing in later years was Ringo on drums. Christ, it only cost me ten quid: ten lousy English pounds (US$15.00 in today's terms). It seemed a lot then and I wasn't prepared to lash out any more. What a complete tosser and idiot I was. You can imagine that today that record would almost be priceless. "What pisses me off every time I think about it is that the lads wanted to do more and the Beatles even pleaded with me to let them do a song on their own with Lou. But with Ringo. I refused and hurried them up, anxious not to be late for the Kaiserkeller. Can you bloody well believe that? "We had just five copies of the record made, stuffed them in our bags and dashed off back to the Grosse Freiheit just in time for the lads to get on stage for another mammoth stint. "As memory serves I had one, Wally took another and so did Ringo and I think two ended up with the other Beatles. It doesn't matter much as I ended up with only surviving copy. And I lost that." Once they were back in Britain Allan took the recording to the Lew Grade organisation in London they were big fish then - trying to make a pitch for this sound and a deal for the band. "So, you could say that I was the first to tout the Beatles on the national music scene. "I met a couple of pin-stripe suit executives who did seem fairly interested. But after a while, frowning they said they thought that the drums sounded a bit off. How about that for an irony? "I never heard from the Grade Organisation again. I often hope that those supercilious bastards have been gnashing their teeth for decades. "Years later in 1971, I set up Allan Williams Promotions ostensibly to stage the first ever Mersey beat reunion. It seemed appropriate and timely to track down all the bands that'd shown so much promise yet had faded away. I planned to mix n' match with some of the ones who'd made it. "It was one of my first promotions. I reckoned that it would go with a real bang if I could persuade Ringo to take part. I didn't hold out any hopes of the other Beatles who were still not talking properly after the cataclysmic break up a few years earlier. The dust hadn't settled on that but I knew Ringo well enough and he was an affable sort, if probably smarting still from the fall out. "Even so I thought a bribe might work and had heard he'd long ago lost that original Hamburg record. So we met up at the Apple offices in London and had a chat. I bluntly told him he could have mine if he would agree to come and guest at the reunion. I mean it was hardly going to break his scraggy neck, was it? Surely just a quick personal appearance in Liverpool, the hometown that had made him wouldn't be that taxing. "Well, I was pretty pissed of when he more of less told me to sod off and said, No. "Okay, you mean bastard, you're not getting that effing record, then. Goodbye. And I slammed out in right huff. "I was pig sick to my guts over his attitude and needed a drink to steady myself. I stumbled along to the Stab, the Daily Mirror pub in Fleet Street. I never knew its proper name it was just nicknamed The Stab in the Back. Ha, ha how appropriate I thought. "It was while downing large vodkas there that I met up with Don Short a showbiz writer that I knew fairly well through my journo mate Bill Marshall who was working at the Mirror too. "Anyway I had the record with me in a briefcase and I told Don all about Ringo being a miserable git. He sympathised and asked me what I was doing that night. I was still feeling pretty sore about Ringo's offhand manner and so I said, I've got nowt to do I'm probably going back to Liverpool. 'Look, he explained, I'm going off to a promotional party at the Savoy Hotel for Jack Jones and Tony Bennett, the American singers who are on a tour of the UK. Why don't you come along with me? There'll be loads of champagne and good food Do you fancy coming?' "Sure," I said my spirits lifting at the prospect of a free drinking session. "Yeh, sure, I'll come along.

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"That was my big mistake. Little did I know that this decision was going to turn out to be just another of my bloody big Beatles blunders. "The champagne was flowing like a river on the rise and I thought, whoa, I'm getting pissed here. And I remembered the Hamburg record in my briefcase, which was lying on a chair by the door. I was determined to guard it with my very life's blood. "I quickly retrieved the briefcase and put it between my legs to make sure I didn't lose it. That glorious piece of black vinyl was worth millions of bucks to me - well, at least lots and lots of thousands at that time. "If I'd have known then how the market for Beatles memorabilia and collectibles was going to go absolutely haywire, into the stratosphere for some items these days - and certainly that recording fitted the bill in this respect -1 might have been more careful. "Anyway that little gathering wound up and Don and I were quite plastered by then with the champagne swilling around me insides. But in the tradition of the hardened boozer that wasn't the end of it, not by a long chalk, unfortunately. "Don took me on a mammoth pub-crawl all over the wild and woolly West End in London. I finished up desperate to get the last train North heading back to Liverpool totally pissed out of my brains on the Euston Station railway concourse minus all my belongings. Just me. No baggage. And no bloody briefcase. "Suddenly as I was swaying trying to make sense of the display board for my train it hit me like a powerful punch in the belly, even through my drunken stupor. "Shit and bust. The bleeding briefcase was gone. I didn't have a clue where it was or where I'd left it, or for that matter where I'd been. I was devastated but didn't see the point of heading back to Soho at that time of the night, even if I could have found my way. "So some lunk headed drunken bum in London probably found the briefcase with that bloody Beatles first record and wouldn't have had a clue what it was. There was no label. I never saw it again. No one has. Not one single copy has ever surfaced. Curses. But at least it proves I was leading the field," he laughs but there is a tinge of suppressed angst hovering behind his smiling lips." Of course, that wasn't the last time Allan lost out on a potential fortune from an early Beatles recording. The saga of the Beatles tapes 'mark two' -aka The Star Club - is another classic of its genre. Naturally he was swindled again. "Liverpool musician King Size Taylor - he's still a mate of mine - was appearing at the Star Club at the same time as the Beatles. He just happened to have this reel-to-reel tape recorder with him and one night, I think it was over a Christmas period; he just hung the microphone above the group. He recorded about two hours in total. "It's quite an amazing recording as it captures the earthy vitality of the lads. Sure it's a bit rough and ready but when you reckon how it was done it's tremendous. You can hear people screaming, whistling and shouting as McCartney swings into Be-bop-a-lula. It certainly gives you the feel of that era; you can almost smell the sweat. "And when Lennon kicks into raw and raucous Twist and Shout you just know that this is something special. A lot of it is a bit tinny but hells bells we didn't have the gear there is now. You can sneak in and record any band now and it sounds perfect. "In my day you had to have a huge Grundig machine which was as big as a bloody suitcase." As luck would have it Kingsize Taylor lost the original tape and for years it was forgotten about. Then one day in the mid 1970s when he and Allan were chatting about it Taylor suddenly remembered that he'd left it in an old recording studio in Hackins Hey in Liverpool city centre. Excited he and Williams rushed off to see if the place was still there. Their hearts sank. It was closed and boarded up. It was due for demolition. But undeterred they broke in anyway. "Chrissakes, we couldn't believe our eyes. Amidst all the jumble and rubbish there was the tape. The Hamburg Star Club tapes from all those years ago. It had been lying around gathering dust and no one in the studio in Liverpool had a clue what it was. Jesus, we were like pigs wallowing in shit for sheer joy.

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"We took it away and played it. It was sensational. Here was the only recording of the Beatles sounding as they did just when they were beginning, and still rough around the edges. "We met up with Tony Sheridan and told him about this and set about getting it ready to sell as albums. We thought our fortunes were made. Then the Beatles hit back insisting that they'd never put out a bad recording. This was just too rough. We argued that it was a chunk of history - their history - and that the fans would die to hear it. It was just as you sounded then. "There was a huge court battle. We won and two guys we had trusted released the record as a vinyl album. We thought we had a third of the deal each, me and Kingsize and them. But this firm called Lingasong Records pissed off with all the money. We never got a bloody penny out of it. I think that hurt me more than losing the Beatles in the first place." Years later Allan's one time business pals teamed up with Bill Harry (now a recognised Beatles chronicler, with two 'encyclopaedias under his belt, one on McCartney) with an attempt to issue an enhanced digitally remastered CD of the set. But George Harrison stuck to his guns and took the company to court pleading: 'No, this isn't fair. We were all drunk and the playing wasn't up to the part. This person took advantage of us. This time the judge agreed and standing by Harrison said: 'The first time it was released was because people did want to hear it, as it was an historical recording. But now, you are trying to sell it as a professional recording. You've done all sorts of tricks with it electronically. Since then, though, the original it has been issued widely in a CD format. (Author: Ironically while living in Beijing in China in 1994 I came across a remastered CD of the Beatles Hamburg tapes which was produced by Masters Records, Roermond in Holland and manufactured by Pilz Compact Disc in Munich. It was amongst a stash of foreign CDs on a back street market stall and clearly a pirated version - most foreign CDs were then. Intrigued I bought it for what was then in China quite a large sum, 70 yuan and equivalent to about 5.00 - never imagining that I would one day discover the true tale of its provenance.) Apart from the Beatles there were other bands on those original tapes, which Allan thinks are in the possession of an American lawyer. "And bits of the Beatles with John and the others pitching in with bad language. He used to chide the German audiences with quips like 'We won the fucking war'. You can be sure that never went on the record. I suppose someone must know where the tape is. Hmm. "Anyway I'm glad that after all the verbal abuse I've had over the years about my Beatles connections that the score over that is settled at last," he says, blinking furiously. "The Beatles have done me proud and laid all those bad minded ghosts and lies with their comments in books and on film. "Okay, maybe I wasn't that big an influence... "But hang on, stuff that.. .1 was a big influence," he grins. "I was a cog in the wheel of the history of the Beatles. And that is enough reward in life for me. I don't give a shit what others might think. I was there. I did it." He recalls an American TV interviewer in Britain recently canvassing for views about Paul McCartney's evergreen career. In a rolling, southern States drawl he commented almost patronisingly: 'Do you realise, sir, you could've been a millionaire?' "I looked at him firmly and replied wide-eyed and puzzled, 'Excuse me, but I AM a millionaire. Startled the media man almost choked on his microphone and demanded: "What? How do you mean. I thought you were almost penniless, sir?" "Well, that's were you are utterly wrong, old son," I shot back at him like Flash Harry. "I am a millionaire... of memories. To me that's more than a millionaire in mere monetary values," and he glances around winking then affects a mock grimace as he remembers that Tost' Hamburg Summertime record. "Bugger it," he murmurs. "Who knows, somewhere, someone might have a fortune hidden in an attic or junk room, a battered old 78-rpm vinyl record. "If they find it I'll be on their case and make no effing mistake."

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In fact, rumours have circulated for years that one copy of Summertime exists, bought a long time ago by an Australian Beatles memorabilia nut. But no one has ever confirmed it or come forward. Allan smiles enigmatically: "Well, if I find the bastard, I'll lynch him."

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3 - how the cops and council wimps screwed up Allan's - and Britain's first open air pop festival The rogues, gangsters, musicians, bohemians and minor glitterati that skittled around Liverpool regarded Allan fondly. Snazzily attired he was something of the local 'godfather' on the club scene; after all he had the Blue Angel and the Jacaranda, both hugely popular and exclusive in their own quirky ways. They were joint ventures with his wife Beryl - who unlike Allan was adept at keeping the purse strings taught. Naturally because the Blue was licensed Allan elected to choose the club as his centre of operations where he could perform as the ever convivial mine host, leaving Beryl to run the coffee bar in Slater Street, slapping up the teas and bacon butties. The Blue and its ambience was most definitely his metier par excellence. He was a well-known figure careering around not just Liverpool but the whole of the North West in his beloved Jaguar cars. His appearance was striking as he still sported the full black beard that he'd worn when first taking the Beatles to Hamburg. He sure enough cut a dash as a man about town: colourful, Celtic and charismatic as he likes to parody himself. It was then another brainwave struck like a bolt of lightening. Allan had been quite taken with reports of the open-air music festivals that were all the rage in America, although mostly focused on traditional and country music. Newport was well established and had been a platform for the increasingly popular protest singer Bob Dylan and the likes of Joan Baez and Pete Seeger. "Yeh, well I reckoned that Liverpool was just about ready to host the first ever open air festival of this kind in Britain. And I wanted it to be a showcase for the rock and roll and beat bands of Liverpool." This was planned for the last weekend in August in 1963. It is worthwhile observing that the 1969 ground breaking Woodstock Festival and its UK equivalent at Glastonbury a year later were not even a pipe-dream away, demonstrating once again how Allan Williams was way ahead of his time. He'd come up with the idea three months earlier over coffee in a cafe in Majorca in Spain when he was discussing the Liverpool beat scene with a pal, Spencer Mason, a classical guitarist. Spencer was keen on the idea and even thought it could be extended across Europe. "We even included in the running schedule plans for a Miss Beat 1963 competition, and all the girls had to wear jeans not bathing costumes to reflect the changing fashions of the day." Allan, ever eager for a pitch, had made advances to the Daily Herald newspaper who, fired by his own enthusiasm - and knowing of his Beatles track record - had agreed to partially sponsor the event, as had the Liverpool Echo, the city's high circulation evening paper. This was another trailblazing entrepreneurial sleight of hand on his part. He and Spencer Mason printed 30,000 tickets and a quarter of a million publicity handbills, which they distributed far and wide. There was even a special train bringing fans from Glasgow and planes were being chartered from the Isle of Man. This was the big time. But the concept was so revolutionary and daring that the city officials and police in Liverpool panicked when he applied for permission. He wanted a licence for music and dancing to stage the show during a summer weekend at Stanley Stadium, a sprawling venue that was used mostly as a dog racing track mostly and only a spit from the famous Liverpool Football Club ground. "These daft bastards told me they were frightened it could turn into a riot. I thought they were completely mental and I decided to go ahead anyway without their approval', confesses Allan. That wasn't the end of his hassles though, as the Daily Herald got cold feet when other newspapers - including the Liverpool Echo - ran stories about how the concert was banned. "I was bloody furious when the Herald pulled out because of this adverse publicity. It cost me a lot of money in the end. "But beforehand I was determined to give it a whirl and was already committed in many ways. And there was no real opposition. It was unique. No one else had the bottle to try this. These days

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festivals like this are ten a penny and just huge gatherings. I reckon I was the first to do it in Britain, probably even Europe. "In the last few days before a decision had to be made I spoke to Vernon Renshaw a lawyer with the Sir Harry Livermore firm in Liverpool. He told me that the actual fine would be something like ten quid. And I thought sod it, for ten pounds, its shit or bust. And I went for bust, quite literally as it turned out." The sceptical authorities were determined to nip Allan's first major promotion in the bud and tried every devious means of stopping it. "They sent in teams of surveyors from the council who suddenly found that all the grandstands were unsafe. I stood watching in amazement as they pushed penknives through the wooden seating planks, tut-tutting that they weren't safe for people to use. "What the hell do you mean? I asked this bumptious arse in a grey suit. This is a bleeding public racing track. They held weekly dog racing events and even stock cars raced there. It was packed all the time. I turned on him and asked how come the stadium was safe two effing weeks ago for the last big stock car race and now it isn't for my event? "This halfwit was unmoved by my entreaties and with a sly sneer said: 'Sorry sir, I'm afraid we'll have to pull it down. "Shit, I was blazing and decided to call in my father who was a building inspector. I needed his advice. He said that it was an easy matter to make them safe - if they weren't, and he doubted it - by flanking the seating ranks with rows of wooden stanchions. That would sort it/ he insisted. But still the council buffoons wouldn't budge and they nodded their heads sagely as Allan ranted. They warned him that unfortunately some of the stands had to come down. In fact, they sneered again, all the timber is unsafe and will have to be bulldozed out of the way. 'It will take weeks. Sorry. "Right, I thought. I'll show you bastards. We'll knock the bloody things down ourselves. So then I charged into Liverpool and rounded up all the beatniks I knew in the Jacaranda, the Green Moose coffee bar and other establishments and told them they could come to the show for free if they helped move all the debris from where we'd knocked down parts of the stadium. "They came in droves and with days to go we had this fiery bleeding bonfire that they must have been able to see from the city council offices. They must have been really annoyed because in the end we went ahead and put on a fabulous show. "We had several stages built in the centre of the ground and a scaffolding compound around them, a bit like a moat so that the fans couldn't climb on and either injure themselves or the performers. These days they also have rows of bouncers and hard case security guys manhandling people. Our idea kept them at least ten yards away. We thought of everything, you see. "And another of our innovations was to have two stages running along-side each other with the concerts in tandem so that there wouldn't be a break. As one band was performing the other would be setting up. It worked like a charm...bang, bang, bang...right into every act so smoothly all day long. "No one had ever done this before and I remember the comperes, the actor Kenneth Cope and my pal Bob Wooler from the Cavern being well impressed with the organisation. "And as for all the police worries about riots? Pah. Right up until we wound up at midnight there wasn't one single fight. I doubt if there was even a punch thrown in anger all day. "We charged about five shillings a ticket in the old currency - the equivalent of around 30p today but had attracted only three thousand people because so many thought it was cancelled. I was really pissed off." The show - his promotional tag was Day - was both a financial pain and initially a loss of face for Williams who recalls that the headlines in the papers - and it was all front page stuff - were screaming: 'Big Beat Show Cancelled! Day Off! City Council refuse Entertainments Licence! "Of course that screwed the ticket sales right away. We had expected around fifteen or event twenty thousand people at least, as the ground was enormous. But those half-wits really messed it up for us.

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"And they didn't even make any attempt to fine me for defying them. I don't think they had the balls to do that because it went off so peacefully. There was no inflamed riot as the stupid police had predicted. "In fact I spotted the Chief Constable wandering around smirking. I overhead him murmuring to one of his inspectors in charge of the hordes of police: 'Well it seems to be quite well run but they haven't got the crowds they expected.' "I felt like turning to him and saying, 'No bleeding thanks to you/ and then when we came to pay all the bills, we approached the Daily Herald and they said no, they didn't feel as if they could honour that agreement. The bastards. I'm glad it went down the pan as a newspaper some years later." The burdens of bureaucracy weren't the only snags that befell the show that featured Billy J Kramer, early sixties heartthrob John Leyton, Alexis Korner, the Searchers and Manchester outfit the Hollies along with about twenty other top-flight Liverpool bands, many of whom would have drawn blood to take part. The shows high profile comperes were Bob Wooler - still riding high in the popularity stakes as the Cavern disc jockey with the lippiest quips in the West - and actor comedian Kenneth Cope, another Scouser, who was making his mark on television, especially in the then infant Coronation Street. "If it had been a success we were even thinking of staging an Atlantic Ocean beat cruise. Tickets would have cost around 50 return - not bad then - and it would have included a four-day stop over in New York. I didn't plan things by halves," chuckles Allan. "As you might expect on the morning of the show it was pissing down with rain, the whole site was a bleeding quagmire by the time we opened the gates at 10.00am. And then later we discovered that a ticket seller on one of the gates had run off with the takings. I was fizzing. "I lost a shed full of money on the event and could have ended up totally broke and bankrupt. "Even my bloody partner in the venture - that Spencer Lloyd Mason guy -did the dirty on me. Instead of him picking up the tab for half the debts he did a runner. He even stole a fabulous band away from me. They were appearing on the show and had hinted they wanted me to manage them. "The Mojos were a classy blues outfit and I knew destined for big things - in fact they did hit the hotspots for a number of years - and were really excellent. I thought I deserved a break after all the crap that had flown my way in the previous four or five years. "It seems Spencer told them I was only interested in promoting shows and not bands, which was partly true as I was planning another with no less a luminary than Brian Epstein who had come along to the Stanley Stadium and was most impressed despite the rain and the poor turnout. "So Spencer persuaded the Mojos that he should be their manager and then to cap it all he also scarpered leaving me with all the debts for the B-Day disaster. Well, it was a disaster in monetary terms but I maintain it was the precursor to all the big festivals of today and didn't do my reputation any harm at all. "I lost money heavily because of the unexpected but necessary demolition of the stands and the bad publicity and the subsequent lack of support from the Herald and the Echo. Then all the staff at the Stanley Stadium had to be paid, after all they had worked their butts off and I was grateful. But I lost thousands and that money had to be found out of our takings from the Jacaranda and the Blue Angel." Brian Epstein had actually told Allan that the Beatles would play at the B-Day event but had realised too late that on the same day they were appearing in Southport, a coastal town about thirty miles from Liverpool. "Brian had promised me faithfully that I could have the lads - and they hadn't by then had a really big hit - but when I asked to sign the contract and to find out how much he would charge me - and I was certainly expecting a good deal here - he looked a little shamefaced and explained he couldn't do it. "There was a barring clause in their contract which prevented them from playing within a certain radius on the same day. I was gutted again. "Then Eppy came along to the show in person to apologise for the slip up and did seem to be enjoying it. I didn't see the point of giving him too much shit over the situation, although I was as

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mad as a bloody hatter. "He said he would make it up to me by letting me promote the Beatles first ever Christmas show later in the year. It meant I stood a good chance of recouping my losses over the B-Day fiasco and I was prepared to forgive him. Of course it didn't happen. "Sure Epstein had promised that I could promote the Beatles that one time but he didn't really let me down as they were supposed to be in Liverpool. But events had moved so rapidly. They had just had a reasonable stab at the charts with Love Me Do and had decided to do the festive show in London rather than Liverpool. I was sidelined again and the next year they took off like a rocket to Mars. Bye, bye Allan, forever. "I was very worried that Beryl and I might lose the Jacaranda and the Blue Angel because of the losses incurred from the Stanley Stadium event. "In a fit of pique I wrote a snotty letter to the newspaper magnate Lord Thomson - or whoever was in charge I can't properly recall now - and gave him the low down on the story. I had nothing to lose except all my bleeding shirts and everything else I possessed. "I didn't pull any punches and told him how the awful headlines and stories in his papers had dropped us in the shit and ruined the event. I told him I was in danger of going bankrupt. Sure enough I knew that the Blue Angel would have been safe because we had a committee to run it and they were all my friends who wouldn't have let it fold. But I'd have lost everything else. So I gilded the lily a bit. "Bugger me, but within a week that newspaper magnate sent me a cheque for two thousand pounds as compensation. I have to admit I was extremely grateful as it did save my bacon and prevent be going down the pan. "So there you have it again folks. Another big event, another risk taking adventure, which fell apart through circumstances out of my control. I remember thinking at the time that I must be the unluckiest bastard on two legs. "But then again, I was proud that I was a sort of pioneer in a way. Other promoters had come along, seen the potential and rushed in to take advantage. I couldn't try it again as I was bloody broke and just watched from the sidelines, again, as other reaped the rewards." He scoffs at himself in a bemused way: "Strangely, I don't usually feel broken or beaten. That's the madness of it all for me. I should learn from my mistakes. "Instead, I have a mind like a grasshopper. I'm on for the next thing and have soon forgotten the bad times. If I'd been affected by all this shit, I wouldn't be around now. I've have probably topped myself, like poor old Brian Epstein."

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4 - the tale of the hull's testicles and 'rocking adventures on the Spanish Costas In general, then, things were not going that well for Allan as the sixties trundled on. Sure the Blue Angel was still a big pull in Liverpool but he wanted another challenge. And he tends to run full pelt at calamities, very much like the angry live bull that was manhandled into the Blue Angel basement only a year or so earlier, for a jape. This was a mock bullfight in mid October 1962 - and on a usually quiet Thursday evening - that nearly ended in a catastrophe with the maddened beast attempting to gore Allan, his drunken pals and panic-stricken customers to death. The newspapers lapped up the tale and the RSPCA (Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals) had camped outside the club, determined to prevent this violation of the bull's rights, although it was destined for the butcher's knife anyway. Pissed, as usual, one night Allan had been chatting to two local abattoir workers when - with the standard 'eureka!' format - he came up with the idea of staging a bullfight in the club for a bit of publicity. They thought it a great lark. A week later a truck turns up outside the night club to greet Allan dressed in full bullfighters gear the Suit of Lights and everything else. The Blue Angel was packed; everyone wanted to see how Allan would handle this situation. "I'd asked these bastards to get me a calf or a small bull, nothing too heavy. Instead there was this wild-eyed, snorting beast - a massive Aberdeen Angus - glaring at me through the slats of the truck. It seemed to take an instant dislike to me. "The abattoir lads unloaded it and with a handful of pals we tried to get it through the front door and then the back door. It was too big, a real bloody bruiser. And by then I was crapping myself, wondering what I'd got into. In the end we managed to force it in the back way and the poor bull by then had also crapped everywhere, shit scared no doubt at all these maniacs. I know this doesn't make me look good, cruelty to dumb animals and all that, but it was different then. "What I didn't know is that some git had reported the event to the RSPCA and as I was in the yard trying to swab off the bull shit, so to speak, before introducing it to the punters, these inspector wallahs popped up demanding to know what was going on. "I laughed and explained that it was going to a party and that it was on its way to the slaughterhouse anyway. Now it'll be able to go with pride, a bit of glamour. I don't think they were impressed but they weren't allowed into the Blue Angel because it was a members only club. Ha, ha. I did ask them in as guests but they declined, something about protocol. And we weren't actually hurting the bull; it was more the other way round. We finally get this beast into the club and I remember Rory Storm falling about in a heap laughing. He was probably one of the best singers on the Liverpool scene, a tall, skinny guy with a stutter who should've been a mega-star. He died in very unfortunate circumstances years later. But on that night Rory was grinning like a buffoon as we got the bull kitted out in blue, red and white ribbons. Suddenly the bastards holding the ropes let go and it charged at me. I jumped about five feet in the air but it could hardly see me in the gloom of the club and just went crashing around. We'd set up this bullring with trestle tables and chairs but it smashed into them and they were pitched around like matchsticks. Whoa, I was a little apprehensive but laughing fit to bust. It hurtled straight into the bandstand and there were guitars, drums and the terrified musicians flying off in all directions. It was hysterical and people were fighting to get up the stairs to escape. I'm surprised to this day that no one was trampled to death. "The professionals from the abattoir leaped in to save the day and the last I saw of the bull was its tail swishing in anger as it was hustled out into the night. In fact, it wasn't the last I saw of it totally. A few days later the abattoir boys come back to the Blue for a drink and dumped this damp, soggy, reddish parcel on the bar in front of me.

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"What's this? I asked. A present, they said. Good gourmet food. People pay fortunes for this stuff Al; they are a delicacy when roasted. And they opened the package. It was the bleeding dead bull's testicles. I nearly threw up on the spot." So, that's Allan for ya, show him a red flag and like that poor old bull he's off at a gallop, to hell with the consequences. And no, he wasn't prosecuted even though it was illegal in Britain to fight bulls, especially in nightclubs. As it turns out that bizarre Spanish bullfight was rather prescient, too. Allan's rock music business was, well to put it bluntly getting rather rocky. He needed a break. And sure enough he did it in real style, in Spain, the spiritual home of the bullfighter. "Yeh, I got this idea of opening a rock factory in Majorca. You know, bars of rock. I'd been out there a few times, liked it and realised that the tourism industry was about to bust at the seams, certainly with the onset of cheap flights for Brits to the Costas. I used to go on holiday myself and see all these adverts for English beer and the like. Hey, I mused, the only thing missing from the domestic seaside fun is rock. You know, those ridiculous bars with writing throughout or in different colours, the stuff that rots your teeth. "When I lived in Huskisson Street in Liverpool with my wife Beryl we rented out a room to a guy called Enrique Trenpes, who was Spanish. One night we were swigging down a bottle of red wine and I said, 'Hey, Enrique, I've got this great plan for a rock factory in Spain. What do you think, mate? "Of course he didn't have a bloody clue what a rock factory was, most foreigners don't. Why should they? It's a crazy Brit thing. I explained and I could see he was half ways convinced through the Vino collapso' haze: well almost. "Right, I thought, and the next day whizzed him off to Blackpool in my fancy Jaguar car to show him the stuff being sold and made. Impressed wasn't the word to describe his look. I think he thought I was a madman. And I suspect he thought people chewing boiled bars of coloured sugar candy were not quite up to the mark either. "I could tell, because I'm quite sharp in this way, that he still reckoned it was harebrained. But I was all fired up by then. Stuff the music business. I was going to become a rock millionaire of a different kind. This was my way out, a breakaway from the rock n' roll. It was 1964 and the Beatles were BIG, BIG, BIG. Sod it, I thought. And I used to joke with people when they looked dumbfounded at the idea, 'Hey, don't knock the rock.' Heh, heh." Naturally, it didn't all just slot into place for Allan. He needed somewhere to manufacture the rock. Majorca just wasn't suitable and premises hard to find. But unexpectedly there was an unlikely ally in Enrique. He actually hailed from Gerona in Andalusia, a wee town hugging the foothills of the Pyrenees and to the north of Barcelona. He suggested that maybe that might be a good place to set up the business. Still embroiled in the Blue Angel, but keen to get this scheme moving, Allan sent his wife Beryl with Enrique on a recce to check it out. "Hey, and they found a great place in a little rural town called Llagostera close to the coast but a little inland. They came across a small factory, which was absolutely perfect for making the rock. I was like a dancing Dervish with delight when they rang with the news. 'They came back and explained that the rent was very, very cheap but that there was three tiers of paying taxes. Ha, just my bloody luck, I thought, falling at the first hurdle. It seems the then Franco controlled government demanded the highest taxes for businesses on waterfronts or the seaside while in the general tourist areas you got hammered for the second level of tax. Then to my glee they revealed that if you were in the country you paid virtually no tax because they wanted the investment and needed the work. "It was pretty bloody obvious to me right away that there was no point making the rock at the seaside resorts like they do in Blackpool and other British holiday towns, giving boring bloody demonstrations all day long and the like. Thank Christ we didn't go down that road. "We got this terrific place just a short hop from Gerona, which was amazing, a lovely country town where even the streets were just made of sand. Christ, they had a town crier with a bell who stood at the end of the street announcing what was going on just for the locals. It was incredible off the

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bloody wall stuff. I loved it. "I was then bemused when an hour or so later I saw the same guy emptying the rubbish bins; he was also the local dustman. But it got better because it turns out he was also the local policeman. One of his many jobs was to officiate at the football matches controlling the crowds. Heh, heh. You know about fifty strong. The next thing I know there he is driving a van filled with meat around the town, delivering to the butchers. Yeh, you could say it was a one-horse town. And it was a far cry from Liverpool, which was buzzing at the time." The next stage of the operation was to hire people who could make rock. "Of course, I couldn't get Spanish - or Catalonian - people as they'd never heard about eating rock, or ever seen what it looked like. And anyway it was only gonna be sold to the English and British tourists who were flocking to Spain and desperate for a little bit of England to be there for them. Christ, they didn't eat Spanish food. They wanted fish and effing chips, for God's sake. I was pretty certain I could make a killing out of selling them rock. "No, I needed good old British rock makers who wanted a change in lifestyle, to live and work in the sunshine. I put an advertisement in the in Lancashire Evening Post for 'rock boilers' and to my surprise I got a reply within days. "This chap was also demonstrating rock making for the tourists in Blackpool. Perfect, I thought. Happy as Larry, I went off to interview him and found out that his wife was in the same business. Lucky days." Allan discovered that she was what was termed a wrap and roller in the rock industry. "The rock mixture is like putty at first, and about two feet wide and three feet high. Its put on a batch roller to turn it and the girls then grab it and roll it along a piece of board about twenty feet long. They were so good they could get it as thin as a pencil just with their bare hands without it breaking. Then they would cut it with a pair of scissors and wrap it up in cellophane paper. "The whole job is quite artistic in its own way. You could churn out 500 pieces of solid rock from a hundred weight of rock mixture. It was cheap because basically it is just glucose and sugar with a coating; throw in a bit of colour and - of course - the essential lettering through the middle. "And I was quite amused that really it was still the rock n' roll business after all. "This couple wanted to bring along a young lad who was going to be the assistant for the sugar boiler. Things were looking up indeed and I agreed that I would pay the rock boiler a hundred pounds a week. It was good money in those days, by Christ it was." Overjoyed with the chance the couple quickly sold up their flat and furniture in Blackpool and Allan sent them off to join up with his man in Spain. This was Enrique who'd been sold on the idea at last, had left Liverpool and was already back home fixing up the factory. Then began the snags. Even with the advice of the sugar boiler Allan was finding it difficult and expensive to buy the necessary machinery. "Jesus, it was costing a bloody arm and a leg and I was still trying to run the Blue Angel, remember. At one point I said to them all, 'Look team, I'm thinking of calling the whole thing off. Then the rock boiler announced that he knew of a rock factory that had just gone bust. "He told me that it was flogging off its machinery, which he insisted was okay. It seems the firm hadn't been at it long and had only recently gone bust, and the machinery was practically brand new. I suppose that should have set alarm bells ringing but it didn't. "I stormed along to the place and right away had negotiated for a batch roller and another machine which pulverised the rock. It had massive arms waving about to force in the air and make the product lightweight. The very thing, I thought and bought it on sight. Later I rang Enrique in Spain to tell him. "Look, IVe just bought the equipment and also a stack of moulds for making sugar mice. He didn't know what the hell I was talking about and as it turned out this particular product didn't go down too well with the Spaniards who we knew. 'Ow can you eeeet a mouses?' they asked disparagingly. "And I laughed like a drain. Not real mice, you daft plonkers. You know the sugared pink mice that British people eat as sweets. They just gave me a non-committal Gallic shrug. But, hey I've still got a mould to this day...a rubber mould for those ghastly, tacky candy mice.

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"I was a bit surprised when Enrique asked me for the receipts for the machinery. But then he told me that he knew the ropes on how to backhand the mayor of this town - an important part of any business deal in Spain. We weren't putting a foot wrong. Ha, stuff all the cynics. I arranged for all the machinery to be shipped from Blackpool by sea to Barcelona and I phoned Enrique to explain that it was on its way and would take two weeks to get there. I was really chuffed." Allan then forgot the rock project for the moment as he focused on his nightclub and having fun. Soon, though, Enrique had written to advise that the machinery had arrived in Barcelona docks. "I was terribly excited and made plans to fly over right away. I rang Enrique to get this sorted and he began to mutter and splutter about still not having the bloody permit to get it released from the port. "It was something about an import problem and as it was second hand gear it had to go through all sorts of bureaucratic motions. It would have been okay if it had been new. I was incensed and yelling down the phone that I didn't need this sort of crap. What can we do about this, I demanded. "Well, there is no need to worry too much, I'll organise that, he told me in that typical Spanish 'nothing matters a toss' manner. A few backhanders here and there will fix it. I did know that in those days of Franco's rule every bleeding official form in Spain had to be stamped endlessly 'cause all these guys who'd fought in the bloody war for Franco had been given jobs in the government. So if you needed a bloody letter for anything it had to be rubber stamped at least half a dozen bleeding times by these pompous bastards. "Of course, it didn't help that they'd never heard of rock making machinery. Christ I was in a state. It had cost me a few bob already and we hadn't even made one bloody bar of rock. "Enrique was calm, though, and insisted it was still okay to fly over and reassured me that by the time I got there, he'd have it all ready and the machinery installed. "Now remember, I'm paying out for this and had already bought the machinery which cost me something like 500. I'd already built up debts because I was drawing money from the Jacaranda to pay for all this. It was no wonder my wife wouldn't give me any of her share 'cause she said, 'No, Allan, I'm not giving you any more money for your mad schemes'...but actually she did think the rock factory was a good idea. "Right, I thought, lets get the thinking caps on. I needed to get over there with the sugar boiler and the other British staff. And it came in a flash of inspiration. We'll drive! "After all Enrique had promised it would all be fine. And I had this rather expensive Ercol furniture to shift over. Well, you see Enrique had found a house for our bunch to live, including all the Blackpool people. I'd promised them somewhere nice and that it would be decorated and furnished. So, I borrowed some of Beryl's lovely Ercol furniture, which she loved. Look, I pleaded with her, its only for a short time. I just need it to make the staff feel comfortable. "I had whacked out a few more pounds and bought an old van but the problem was (!) that it was also second hand and wasn't very good. We broke down constantly on that journey. Instead of taking about four days it took us about ten days to get to Llagestera. We hadn't even got as far as the bloody English coast and we'd had one break down. "The bloody vehicle - a Ford minibus - was packed solid with people and chattels. I was even giving Enrique's brother Pedro a lift. He'd been working in Liverpool and wanted to get home. There was Pedro and me, a builder - my pal Victor Railton - and a decorator that I knew, because I reckoned it would take the Spanish weeks to do up the house. There was the sugar boiler and his wife and stone me if they didn't bring a little baby with them. I was stunned. I didn't know about this three year old until I turned up to get them. "We were all crammed into this bloody wreck of a van and because there was no water gauge or anything like that - and we didn't know how much petrol there was as we didn't have a petrol gauge either- we carried one can of petrol and one can of water. I sensed disaster from the start. "On that journey through France and Spain we had about four breakdowns - and there's no bloody Automobile Association in Spain. Aha, but I'd partly anticipated this and I'd packed one of those portable bikes that you can fold in half. "Whenever we broke down or ran out of petrol I'd hurl the bloody bike at Pedro and bellow, 'Go

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and find an effing garage and bring a mechanic back with you'. In the background the baby was screaming constantly. I thought I was going totally off my rocker at one point. "On afterthought it would have been better if I'd bought a decent van but I'd only paid thirty quid (US$40) for it and the idea was that I was gonna scrap it when we got there. That was my first mistake. 'The first major hiccup was during one breakdown in France and because Pedro was the bleeding Teg man' on this trip - it wasn't costing him a bleeding penny -1 ordered him to get out. 'We've run out of petrol, Pedro' I yelled, 'so you get the cans and top us up'. "He rummaged around and found these two gallon cans, one with water and the other filled with petrol. You can imagine what happened. The stupid buffoon put a gallon of water in the bleeding petrol tank. But we didn't know at first. "We'd gone a very short distance and next minute there was havoc as we bumped along this Godawful road in the French countryside on the slopes of the fucking Alps near Perpignon. There were all sorts of explosions like guns going off. I thought what the hell's happening? I thought we must have stumbled into another French revolution. But the noise was coming from the van! I stopped it and pushed the van into a field and Victor had a quick look and said: 'You're not gonna believe this Allan, but that idiot has put in a gallon of water in the tank'. "I was frothing at the mouth but not as much as I was within a few minutes. Being a smart-arse and a former plumber I reckoned it would be okay to siphon out the fluid from the petrol tank. I would suck it out through a tube, in the old fashioned way. Christ, I can still to this day taste the mixture of water and petrol in my mouth. "It was like a bloody farce and I kept getting gobfuls of petrol swilling around my bleeding teeth and tongue. And we ended up spending two days in this bloody field trying to get the van going again. In the end we had to unload everything and virtually tip the bloody van upside down to try and get the tank empty to get rid of the water. There was this little reserve tank that was being an obstinate bastard. "What a sight that made. This bunch of crazy Brits upending a battered van in a French field with a baby screaming it's bloody head off sitting in a ditch nearby. "Well, we just couldn't get it going so I sent Pedro off on the bloody bike again. 'Find a garage, you dumb dickhead', I yelled. "Eventually this French guy wanders along and I explained the problem while he nodded sympathetically. 'Ah, yes monsieur, the reason the car weel not go, is because of the water in the tank. N'est ce pa, monsieur? This is correct, Sir? I was on the verge of giving him a good thrashing around the ears. Quietly, though, I pulled him to one side and agreed, begging for his help. And he did get it going. He must have been a magician. Oh, and by the way there were no brakes on this heap of shit either!" With tears of relief Allan and his crew were finally back on track and heading through a border town to go up the mountains where beyond lay Spain. Suddenly they were in the midst of mayhem again. Allan is hysterical as he recalls this incident: "Ha, ha, ha, we still had some water still floating around the tank and the exhaust was hammering like a bleeding gun. Bang! Bang! Sparks and flames were shooting out of it. Ha, ha, ha. "As it happens we were going through this little town and there was this fucking baker carrying a tray of bread slowly walking down the street. As we went past him the exhaust let off a massive bang and flames shot out across his path. He threw himself down to the ground and his tray of bread and cakes went flying and rolling every where... I'll never forget it... ha, ha.... the poor bloody baker...this explosion just behind him out of nowhere. He must have thought the war had started all over again. We just carried on and I think to this day he must be baffled. "We get to the border at last and there was a queue of cars at the checkpoint and I thought, oh fucking hell we've got no proper brakes. I had to drive very slowly, chugging along at four or five miles an hour and I had everyone out - apart from that bloody kid - running behind the van so that when I wanted to stop they grabbed hold. They were the bloody brakes. What a lark. "The whole trip had been filled with mishaps, though. We had been trundling through another little

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town in France when the doors at the back flew open. Now, I don't know why but the baby was in the back and fell out of the van into the road. It was literally pissing down with rain and the water was in torrents running along the gutters. The mother was shouting like a mad, possessed woman. I slammed on the breaks, jumped out of the driver's seat and had to dive into this river of dirty, muddy water that was thundering downhill on either side of the road. The bloody kid was being swept away. I grabbed it by the coat while through the noise of rain and this torrent of swirling water I could hear the mother screaming. For weeks after she wouldn't shut up about it, thanking me for saving the kid's life. Christ. "After ten tortuous days we get to Gerona where I phone Enrique at his house as arranged. He seemed a bit offhand and muttered that he had bad news for me. I growled down the line, 'Look, mate, we are just not ready for bad news. It's taken us ten effing days to get here. And the baby was nearly drowned in a bloody river of mud. "In a hushed voice Enrique then told me that he hadn't quite got permission for the machinery to be released yet. What the hell do you mean by 'not quite' I howled at him. By this time we were in the middle of the holiday season and the only thing I could think about was, 'Wow, here we are in August when we could've made big bucks here with this bloody rock And we've no machinery. Terrific! And I don't think'. "I was bellowing down the phone at Enrique who was complaining -imagine him bloody complaining, the cheeky bastard - that he still couldn't get release of the documents. Angrily I turned on him and said, 'Well what about all the money I gave you for the backhanders? "He replied that because it was all second hand machinery, we'd thrown the whole of the administration into turmoil. They were only used to equipment coming in new from abroad. 'Look, Allan he whined, they don't know what the hell rock confectionary gear is...a batch roller and a pulveriser. They are confused.' "In an attempt to calm me down he did say that he had spotted it all on the dockside in Barcelona. Oh, yeh, its all there he said, safe and sound, as if that was the final bloody solution to all our problems. I could have smacked his silly head if he'd been in striking shot. "That's no bleeding good, I shouted. I've gotta pay these people a hundred pounds a week and they've got no bloody machinery to work with. Get it sorted and quick. "I was shattered after the journey and needed a drink. But first I had to get this bloody gang settled in the house. They were also very tired and the bloody baby was bawling, as usual. I was thinking that moaning effing musicians and all their bloody quirks are a doddle compared to this caper. "We meet up with Enrique and off we go to Llagostera. He takes us to this little house, this terraced effort in this one horse town. And when they see this terraced house their faces dropped. Honest to God even I was ashamed. He hadn't even decorated so much as one bloody room. And in the backyard, over the wall - and none of us could believe what we were seeing - there was a bleeding piggery. They were breeding pigs next door and the place stunk to high heaven. "The sugar boiler's wife burst into tears and wailed, 'You promised us a luxury apartment and look at this, a pigsty and listen to them honking. I hate this place.' "She was right, of course and I thought shite, I can't let them stay here and so Victor and I agreed we would park our arses in this dump. I had to put them up in a hotel. More expense. Oh Christ it was all going downhill so fast. There was no machinery and I'm paying for them all just to go and sunbathe on the sodding beach every day 'cause it was so bloody hot." In desperation Allan turns to the sugar boiler and asks has he got any ideas that could maybe save the day. It was such a bloody silly situation and they just had to do something. He pondered for a few moments and with a broad smile said: 'If you can get the glucose we can make the mice, because that's only candy and the like. We can do that.' "I almost hugged him and asked about lollypops as well - the heart shaped things that were so popular in Britain. Yeh, he said, we can do that as well as its just coloured syrup. And you don't need the rock making machinery for them. "I hustled Enrique out of his bloody irritating Spanish torpor and within days he'd found a metal works - a sheet metal works in this out of the way place for God's sake - and they made us the

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moulds for the heart shaped lollypops. "Hey, things were looking up. I dreamed up the slogan 'Guaranteed a Million Licks'. We enthused that we could sell them to the growing number of English style pubs all along the Spanish coast, while we waited for the goddam rock machinery to turn up." Word soon spread in the expat community, as Allan is certainly not one to let a sleeping dog lie when it can bark its bleeding head off. One day he met up with two men who had heard of his idea and had motored all the way from Liverpool in England to meet him. They had decided they could sell the stuff at markets, pubs, bars and shops throughout Spain. "Yeh, they were very upbeat and the idea was that I would pay them commission. One of the guys was called Roger (and later he owned the Penny Lane Wine Bar in Liverpool, set up ironically to capitalise on the Beatles tourists) and he had an Australian pal who wanted in on the act, too. He had a very brash Aussie accent but it must have worked because they did flog the lollypops all over the place. "It kept us afloat for a while but I was worried about cash flow and told everyone, 'Look we've gotta sell rock, that's the big money spinner." Out of the blue the sugar boiler came up with the answer. 'Look Allan, I remember when I was doing my apprenticeship we used to put a big hook on the wall and aerate the rock that way. I can make the basic stuff and we get the rock and throw it like a letter eight over the hook and that lets the air in.' "We all cheered and everyone was keen to get going. Bloody hell, it was red hot, that rock, and I've still got the blisters on my hands now! "We fixed this hook up on the wall about five foot high and all took turns in throwing up this rock material like putty, although hell and damnation it was more like molten larva. Well, to be honest it wasn't fully fool proof. We did get rock out of it but one piece about 12 inches long weighed like a piece of lead...it reminded me of my plumbing days. Sure, we got bars of rock but they were solid, and looked like chunks of real bloody rocks. "I realised that we really did need the proper machinery to get the air into the rock, which makes it light, transportable and easy to hold and eat, which is the whole point of it. After a while I said, 'Stuff this malarkey, there's gotta be some way to get that machinery'. And don't forget time was moving on. We'd been there three weeks and my hands were blistered all the time until I got used the heat. "Meanwhile, me old pal Bill Marshall from the Daily Mirror had 'sold' his editors on this story about this crazy British guy opening up a rock factory in Spain, especially as it was me; the man who'd given the Beatles away. We'd named the firm The Willemps Rock Factory and they loved this tale of crazy expats on the Costas. "This was the first time that Bill had been on a foreign assignment and he arrives in Gerona to find this bunch lazing on the beach and not much else going on. "He shrugged and said he couldn't care less as he was being paid for the job. He just wanted to go and have a swim before I took him to the factory. Off he goes, driving my navy blue Jaguar by the way, which he'd borrowed in England. We'd struggled over in a bloody van and he came in luxury, the swine. He parks up by the beach and gets changed into his swimming gear in the car. It was a gloriously hot, Spanish summer's afternoon. "Now, in those days thieves used to sneak over from France to plunder from the naive tourists packing the Spanish resorts. While Bill was splashing about having a whale of a time in the sea, doesn't he have all his clothes stolen? He hadn't got a stitch left, apart from his wet shorts. Off he wanders to find the local police but he didn't get much joy from them because the Spanish police at the time didn't have much respect for 'English' journalists because they were always writing anti Franco tracts. Well, you can understand their position to an extent. "Bill was in a bit of a state and I loaned him money to buy some clothes. He had soon relaxed and wrote a great report about the rock factory, which got into the national papers in Britain and then hit the papers in Spain and other countries. Way hay I was on a roll. "He was interested in seeing the factory and off we went. But he would insist that he needed a

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photograph of rock, which could have been something of a problem, as we hadn't made any by that juncture. "But I'd been a canny sod and while frustrated waiting for the machinery had bought a stash of rock in Blackpool and exported it to Spain. I'd got Roger and his pal to visit this rock factory in the English resort and get the words Costa Brava written through it. It was a great bloody wheeze and they brought a load with them. So when Bill arrived for the photo, hey, we had proper rock. Heh, heh. I don't think anyone ever twigged back in Britain. "Of course, it couldn't have been done on a regular basis but while we were all coming to and fro from England, it made sense until the factory was up and running. "In fact the rock maker in Blackpool - whose dad was a former mayor of the town - was also an old friend of mine. At one point he was going to join me in this venture - even before the sugar boiler came on the scene -but he got locked up by the police just when we were about to agree the deal. "He reckoned the Spanish plan was marvellous and I was thrilled that he was going to be my partner. It was only a few hours before I first flew out there that he rang up and said, 'Hi, Allan, I've got some bad news. I think I'm about to go to prison.' Once again, I was gob smacked by the turn of events in my life. "I think it was counterfeiting or forgery, something marginally serious like that, And he was due up in court. He asked me to do him a favour. He would be really grateful if I could come along as a character witness and state in court that he was going to open a factory in Spain with me. If he gets locked up the idea will be lost; that sort of thing. "Yeh, I said, sure. I did go to the court but they were not that terribly impressed with my plea. I explained that without his involvement the whole project would collapse and all the Spanish workers would be sacked. The judge glowered at me and said, Too bad, tough on you. He's got a string of criminal offences and he's going to jail, and that's the end of it.' He turned me to me with a smirk and added, 'Now, you'll just have to advertise for a new sugar boiler.' "And so I did, which is where we wound up. I'd got national and international coverage for the rock factory, which hadn't made so much as a single piece by then. We still didn't have the bloody machinery and it was being made by hand. But orders were flooding in from all over Spain. People were ringing up every day, 'What a brilliant idea, Allan. Can you make us personalised rock? Can we have fifty bars with our pub name through them? Strewth, I thought, I'm gonna be a millionaire at last; and here in Spain. I was over the moon. "But I needed all that gear off the docks, and quick. Otherwise my plans, as usual, would turn to ashes. "One night as we were drowning our sorrows in Spanish brandy someone asked if I'd been to the British Consulate office in Barcelona to see if they could help. After all they had a commercial section whose very job was to sort out bureaucratic tangles. It was like an 'Eureka' moment. That was the answer. "A few days later I wandered into the commercial section of the British Consulate and I'll never forget what happened next. My jaw dropped. "Hello, Mr Williams, we've been waiting for you. We wondered how long it would take before the penny dropped." How do you mean, I asked incredulously. "We do tend to know what is going on with British firms and you did export the machinery from Britain after all. Why didn't you come to us in the first place?" I stuttered that I didn't actually know they existed, no one had told me. "The pinstriped suit across the desk said rather haughtily 'I suppose you've got a Spanish partner. And he said he could get this done for you, the machinery through customs?" Erm, yes I said and added that we'd been there four weeks already and no sign of it. "He leaned forward and in a snooty voice said it would take him a mere 24 hours, through temporary paperwork. And do you know, with it coming directly from the embassy, it did happen fairly quickly, and the machinery was installed. I was cussing like a drunker trooper as by then it was coming on September and the season was over. There I was with a rock-making factory at last, but it was coming on winter with the season winding up and I was paying all these people to work

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for me. "It officially opened on 17th September 1965, my wedding anniversary. I thought that augured well. Hmmm. Little did I know. "Look, I even had the wife of the chief constable of Llagostera working for us, wrapping the rock. Honest. We couldn't operate with just three people and had hired three locals. Why the chief constable, you might wonder? He suggested it...heh, heh...to give his family another part time job...well it was for his wife actually although he popped in now and then, just to get his hands dirty. And when I say chief constable we're only talking of a little village. He was only probably a captain but to me he was a chief constable. He had all the power in that town, I can tell you. "Then one day all the tourists left. This was the sixties and the season didn't carry on throughout the year, like it does now. But I was very confident about the future because we were getting orders from all over coastal resorts of Spain, anywhere the Brits laid their heads. At last, I'd come up with a scheme that would make me rich. "Happily I was in dreamland one morning when the phone trilled. Half asleep I picked it up. It was the chief constable's wife. He had asked her to call me. To warn me that officials and armed police from Barcelona were on the way to close down the rock factory. I was stunned. What! I was out of bed like a shot and shouting down the line almost in hysterics, 'What do you mean, close us down? WHY, for Chrissakes? "She explained that in Spain it was the responsibility of the employer to pay all social security dues for the staff, stuff like national health. Of course, I didn't know this, no bastard had told me and I was just forking out the wages every week. Seems this information had filtered through to the local government people in Barcelona. I have often wondered if it was those bastards in customs at the docks. "The chief constable's wife turned up to tell me more and over a coffee laced with vodka I listened in shock as she said, 'Look, we feel we have to tell you this because you have been very good to me - and my husband -but they are coming to arrest you tomorrow.' "Bloody hell. I was going to be arrested. Just for being successful, well almost. "The cops were coming from Barcelona, which is why she tipped us off. It seems the whole village loved us because we were characters and had also brought work to the area. I think only about three hundred or so people lived in the village, which was about two or three streets in total. They were our pals. "The local police chief was considered to be too friendly with us and couldn't be trusted to handle this on his own, it seems. He was obliged to guide the 'big boys' in from Barcelona to make the arrests in what was apparently going to be a dawn raid. This was clearly big time criminal activity for these bastards. We were obviously an outfit of foreign gangsters. Manufacturing bloody bars of rock. Oh, yeh, sure. I just couldn't believe this turn of events. "Dazed, I called Enrique and demanded that he give me the Jaguar car back that by then he was using. Bill had flown home. We had another car at the factory and I rounded up all the staff and told them the news. I explained to the boilermaker, his wife and their kid that we were clearing off home pronto the next day. Pronto. We'll just close the factory now and come back when it's all sorted out next year. And anyway, I mused, it had been a great dry run, even if the local shopkeepers refused to stock our sugared mice. They never did accept them, even though we assured them people in Britain devoured them. They remained sceptical to the bitter end. "Early the next morning we heaved our belongings into the Jag and the spare car and all the other workers and villagers came to wave us away. "But I'd had one little jape to perform before we went our weary way: one last order to complete. There was this pub, an English pub in San Felou called the Captain's Arms. The owner had ordered a box of 500 rock bars with the name of the pub written throughout. "With my usual devilish sense of humour I said to the team, 'Look we're all going home so just put the words Captain's Arse Rock through it. And we did, for a laugh, and delivered them to him in boxes. He paid me -thank Christ he did, that was our petrol money home. Naturally he discovered the joke but also had a sense of humour. Later he told me that he sold every single piece of the rock

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because of that trick. They all loved the Captain's Arse wheeze and he was even talking about renaming the pub. I think he was joking again, though. "A little nervous but highly bemused we did a midnight flit from Llagestera but would you believe it, the other stinking car broke down just before the border with France. We couldn't afford to stop as we thought the Spanish police were in hot pursuit, which they probably were. We all had to pile in the Jaguar...crammed in all the way to England. And with that bloody baby bawling its lungs out as per usual. "Effectively that was the end of my dreams of becoming a rock millionaire even though I knew that with all the orders coming in we were onto a good thing. By then, though, I'd completely run out of cash. In fact, I'd lost thousands of pounds again. I was pig sick. First the real rock festival fiasco back in Liverpool and the fire at the Top Ten Club and then this. I was obviously doomed by fate to be a crap entrepreneur." Allan Williams, nevertheless, over the years continued to rise like a wild flapping phoenix from the ashes of his catastrophic business flops. But the saga of the Spanish rock wasn't quite over. "Yeh, we had left the gear and everything in Llagostera.. .just closed the door and did a runner. Lost thousands and all the equipment. And it was such a great idea that I was convinced was gonna work, especially after the publicity in the Daily Mirror. And at the time Brits owned 90% of all the bars in the coastal resorts of Spain, supported by Spanish partners. "I was determined not just to let it slip away. I couldn't just hand this over like I had the bloody Beatles. We put an advertisement in the Times: Wanted People to Invest 10,000. Quite a few people were interested but we couldn't get a grant from the British government. And those with the money couldn't invest it out of Britain because of currency restrictions that were prevalent in those days. "Once more I was down in the dumps when I got this phone call from a nightclub owner guy I knew in Liverpool. I think it best not to name his, as I still like to use my legs. He'd won money on the Football Pools, a kind of old fashioned Lottery - a hefty sum as I recall. He'd heard of the rock factory and said he was interested in putting in some cash. Actually, I think he'd won the Pools twice. He had a lot of money. I was intrigued even if he did have a reputation as a bit of a villain. Actually, if truth were told he was a real hard case villain. "He asked me how much I needed and I explained that we had the factory in Lagestera and then and this was something I had kept largely under wraps -1 told him about other premises in Majorca. "Well, we had been so confident about the whole thing that we were certainly discussing another factory in Majorca, a lovely island that was just opening up to the Brits as well. "The following year despite all of the previous disasters, I was on a high, convinced this was all going to turn out for the best in the end. And for reasons beyond my grasp or understanding now I was even planning an expansion of the rock business. Naturally, though I didn't have any money of my own and not one single investor, not a bloody penny. "Aha, but in Majorca I'd come across this block of tenement flats, which had a huge, empty basement. Hey, ho, I thought this would have been the perfect location for making rock on the island. Smart as ever, as I rashly assumed, I'd taken a lease on the place just in case. "I'm sitting there throwing back the vodkas in 'my mate's' joint and I'm bulling up this project to such an extent that even I was puzzled at my breathless excitement. Well it worked and he did seem very keen. To be honest I wasn't totally sure but he insisted he did need to know if it was a viable investment and a worthwhile project. Ha, I laughed cockily. 'Most certainly is, old son. Absolutely. "And to keep him on board I had to tell him everything: where we got and bought the glucose, that we'd got sugar boilers and other professionals in the team. There was something nagging at me about that aspect. Perhaps I shouldn't be squealing all this detail out, I was handing over my secrets on a plate. "But I was in up to my neck - both over money and pride - and desperately wanted to keep the business afloat, even if it was with a bloody crook. I gave him the names and addresses of the team in Blackpool - who were all back home, of course - and he checked them out. "What I didn't know then was that the bastard was sorta ripping me off. He realised very quickly

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that it was a great idea but that I couldn't afford to do it on my own. Behind my back he interviewed the sugar boiler - who was called Bob - and his wife. They really showed their loyalty to me in a jiffy. He told this guy that as I didn't have the funds to open the factory again, sure no problem, he'd work for him. The bastard. He even showed him where all the machinery was in Llagostera. I couldn't get my hands on it, as I owed the owner of the building money. And I most certainly couldn't call the Spanish cops who as far as I knew were hunting my hide far and wide. "But right then I was one dumb mother. It was only afterwards when he was being evasive and disinterested even when I took him to see the new premises in the heart of Palma that something clicked in my brain. It became obvious to me that he was planning something. Whenever I called him he was busy. "The next moment I heard that he'd opened the rock factory. He snaffled all my contacts and he took advantage of all the publicity Fd got from the Daily Mirror. All he had to do was open the factory - my factory! - and write to these people. Frankly, it was a bit mean the way he did it. He took the lot, squeezed me out. "After a while, though, I had my vengeance - even if it was freezing cold - because he was a worse businessman than even me. He wasn't devoted to the idea like me and was just playing around. He'd probably thought I'll stuff this little git Williams and I'll open it myself. "But the bottom line is he simply didn't put his heart and soul into it, as I wanted to do. He didn't go out and hard sell the rock or market it properly. It didn't last long and soon folded, the factory closed down for good. So that fantastic idea went by the board because this eejit made a complete hash of it. What a clown, what a waste. I could have cried. "Aha, but I still had the lease on the premises in Palma and I had another brainstorm of an idea to make a few bob. "My wife Beryl and I had this friend Pacquita who had once managed a bowling alley. She was working in a nightclub as a waitress so when I was over in Majorca I would often look after her kid and so we knew her well. One day we were just talking about her days in the bowling alley. Bingo! My eyes lit up. Well, I couldn't let the basement go to waste, now could I? And her was the ideal solution. Pacquita thought it was a fine idea and we agreed she should be our Spanish partner. Within months and, of course, with a grand flourish, he had opened the first bowling alley on the island of Majorca. "I was king of the heap again. I remember how we had this wild launch party fuelled with bottles of cheap Spanish champagne - a snip at 25 pesetas a litre. Everyone was soon merry and larking around and we lined up all the empty bottles up as if they were skittles. Everyone tried to smash them to bits and then everyone got totally smashed on the booze as well. It was a humdinger of a bash. "Don't get me wrong it certainly wasn't a fully equipped modern bowling alley, far from it. It just had a concrete floor, but it was good because it had four lanes. We had to employ pin boys to pick up the skittles because we couldn't install the automatic machines. This was a very dangerous job because we'd get these drunken Spanish people hurling these heavy bowls down the lanes as though they were possessed by a devil, forcing these kids to dart everywhere for fear of life and limb. I did shudder now and then but no one sued in those days for injuries. "It was all a wonderful lark and I almost forgot about being ripped off over the rock factory. We couldn't buy the skittles in Spain So I used to get the pins - skittles - from a bowing alley in the once rundown Victorian seaside town in Britain called New Brighton that is located just over the river Mersey from Liverpool. That bowling venue is open even now and I think very popular. I knew the manager and would buy the second hand skittles from him. Ha, my obsession with second hand gear has almost ruined me on many occasions. "It was funny going through Spanish customs and being asked what I was carrying and them looking askance at the suitcases full of these second hand skittles. They thought I'd lost me marbles. "Part of the venue also had a bar called the BAP Bowlas and all this was going rather well, and I was reasonably pleased although it certainly didn't have the wealth generating potential of the rock factory. "One day, while counting the takings it dawned on me with one of those 'clunk' effects, 'Oh Dunk,

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Yuh'... that in reality I wasn't getting any money out of it. I sat down and had a little think over a glass or two of vodka. Hang on, I said to myself, turning my attention to my loverly Spanish business partners. How come they've managed to move out of that dingy, run down fucking flat? And they had bought a brand new, modern luxury apartment filled with all sorts of expensive gear. Oh, no. The penny dropped and my heart sank again. "Sure, I was still running the Blue Angel and couldn't be in Majorca all the time. But I was coming back and forth as often as I could and had trusted them throughout that summer. "Then I realised that they were making a bloody good living out of it and I wasn't. Just like other bastards in my life who have taken advantage of me, their psychology was, 'Well he's got all the money but isn't interested. He prefers to be in Liverpool. Okay, we'll rip him off. It was that sort of mentality. I was blazing mad. "I talked to Beryl and regretfully decided I would sell out my interests. So the Spanish folks including our dear friend Pacquita - bought me out, but it wasn't a lot of money. We made a small profit out of it. Pah, another flop in effect. "Mind you, I still laugh about the BAP Bowlas because it kept going for years. It had captive customers, so to speak, as it was slap bang in the middle of the red light district! Naturally, where else would it have been? The main trade was the pimps. While their girls were out whoring the night away all the pimps were playing bowls and drinking in our bar. "You see, in this venture we didn't go for attracting the British tourists except on Saturday when they came to the local flea market, which was also in our street. However, I don't think many of the Brits who used the bar knew that the prostitutes used it for their tea breaks. It was essentially a watering hole for whores.

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5 - a spell in a Welsh jail looms and hard days nights at the Blue Angel as celebrities line up to he insulted As usual, Allan didn't brood for long over yet further buckets of bad luck. The music festival had nearly left him penniless and the rock factory had failed. "I shouldVe been down in the dumps. But the days were balmy and I think we were enjoying what is bafflingly called in Britain an Indian summer and my mood was surprisingly buoyant." Thankfully prison hasn't featured large in Allan's life - much to some people's surprise and his own relief - but there was an occasion in that sultry, hot summer of 1995 when he could easily have been banged up in a Welsh jail for several months. He'd been technically selling illegal booze, and on the Sabbath. He laughs that it was almost a hanging offence in Wales at the time. "Everyone was into having barbecues - the latest rage from America -but most were jostling for spare ground at the seaside and the coastal areas of Liverpool and Lancashire. I thought, stuff all that sand in sandwiches, and remembered the lovely, scenic areas of North Wales where I'd been evacuated as a kid during the War." One night Allan was chatting over a few drinks with a pal in the Blue and he told him about a field close to the picturesque Ceiriog Valley, an area of natural beauty guarded by the Marcher fortress of Chirk Castle and a short hop from the delightful river Dee town of Llangollen. "The very spot, I blurted out and off we went to check it out. It was fine apart from the huge bottomless pool that flashed danger to me. I could imagine the punters drunk as lords splashing in for a dip and that would be the last we'd see of them. They'd be listed as missing persons. Oh, and it was in a cave. Nah, I thought, too risky. "We popped into a local boozer to make further inquiries and the publican was very helpful. Sure, he knew a farmer who could help, lovely field and all that crap. "So we approached this farmer who did indeed have a fine field at the top of the valley, but it was full of animals. No problem, he assured me that he would shift them. And we then had a little tour around a courtyard with a cobbled square and a couple of outhouses. Wow, I thought this will be perfect and people can crash out later. "I'd set about this very professionally, ordered stacks of tickets, which were on sale in our clubs for what I called The Mad Mid Summer Night's Barbecue. I didn't know then just how insane that gig would turn out. "As we peeked into one of the farmer's outhouses I spotted this huge cow's carcass slap bang in the middle. Excuse me, Mr Evans, I said politely it won't be that nice for the party goers to smell that dead cow, or fall over it in the dark. He replied in his Welsh lilting voice that 'it just shows that it isn't all profit in farming, you know boyo'. I nodded and said patiently that I understood but could he move this great stinking beast, as my customers will be forking out a fiver each. "A week later the bloody cow was still there, reeking and stinking. Bugger this, I thought, we've only got a couple of days so we decided to move it ourselves. We tied ropes around its back legs to drag it out and bury it somewhere. Suddenly with a squelching sound the bloody cow ripped in half, it was so rotten. Spilling out of its guts were literally millions of maggots. I thought, bloody hell this is gonna take weeks to clear up. Instead we threw straw over the maggots but I did reflect on what might happen if some people decided to make love in that barn, it was an ideal place for courting couples. I could imagine the next day them waking up with knickers full of maggots...and wondering what sort of unusual new sexual disease they'd caught. "All 250 tickets were sold - grub included - and I'd organised coaches to take the punters on the two-hour journey from Liverpool to the Welsh countryside. It was shaping up to be a beautiful night and I had a new steel band and a jazz outfit lined up to provide the entertainment. The journey meandered through the back lanes to Wrexham then towards the English market town

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of Oswestry on the Welsh border. "It was up a little side street and I had it all signposted on trees and even supplied maps. The plan was that those in cars and the coaches had to stop at a certain point up the mountain, as it wasn't suitable for motor vehicles, and make the rest of the way on foot. Of course being a bunch of irregular anarchists, they all ignored that and crazily drove up the side of the mountain. Of course I did understand that the groups needed to unload their oil drums and the like from vans but the bleeders who were there just to get hammered. "This is where I made me first mistake. The publican who had found us the site asked if I would be selling booze. He wondered if I could buy the booze of him. Sure, I reckoned he was owed a favour and took 200 worth. "But the old bastard would only sell it to me for the same price as across the counter in the pub, with no discount. Right, I thought, I'll sort you out right off, you bastard and went to Harry Waterman's brewery in Liverpool - King's Brewery - and ordered another 500 from him as well. The Welsh publican was happy enough, as I thought, and delivered the booze to the site. I carted the rest in the same minibus van that that I'd driven with the Beatles to Hamburg. Still had it then. "Everything was set up, the barbie was a big hit and the locals all flocked to the site, gob smacked at all these townsfolk letting their hair down. This was yokel territory in those days. I let them in for free because it seemed mean to charge them. That was my second mistake. "To my horror one of the snidely gits reported me to the police because I was selling drink on a Sunday without a local functions licence, and it was the Sabbath...and in Wales! Fire and Brimstone territory. I hadn't even given it a second thought, and that swine in the pub never hinted at a problem. It was considered almost a capital offence, as the country was dry on a Sunday. What a shower. "But as it turns out it took a year for them to prosecute me even though two local police bobbies had come on the following Monday morning to issue the first warning. They even took a drink with us as they casually mentioned that they had monitored us throughout. They were very friendly like and I mellowed towards them. Seems someone else had also put the boot in. It was the other farmer fellow with the cave and the bottomless pit. The cars from our mob had been left splayed around, jamming the lanes and he complained that he couldn't get his milk out. "The cops, who by then were tucking into what was left of the cooked chicken, washed down with a beer, actually said we had been well behaved. 'Oh, yes, everyone has enjoyed the music around here/ they told us and of course as we were high up it had carried across the valley. They were very sorry about the complaints but they had their job to do, but they could hardly get the words out because their mouths were stuffed to bursting with our grub. "Months went by and nothing happened. We'd soon forgotten the incident and the Barbie was just a happy memory. Then out of the blue almost a year to the day later I was stunned to get this summons through my letterbox. I was to present myself to a court in North Wales to answer the charges of selling liquor on the Sabbath. Fucking hell, I couldn't believe it. And it wasn't a real court, just a temporary effort in a local church hall because there wasn't usually a call for one. It was like Casey's Court, almost a kangaroo effort. "Aha, but I had a trump card to teach these Welsh bumpkins a thing or two. I dragged along my pal Vernon Renshaw, who also doubled up as the police prosecutor in Liverpool for when they raided shebeens, as the illegal drinking dens and stills were known. He was the North's leading expert on sellirig illegal liquor. So, we arrived in our best suits and ties to this court and found that the whole village had turned out. This was a big social event, it seems. "The Welsh, though, had their own ace up the sleeve, as they thought. This was a Colonel Roberts who seemed to be in charge of the team lined up against me. He was a pompous arse surrounded by a string of clerks and prosecuting magistrates, all sitting behind trestle tables, the sort you might use for wallpaper pasting. It was like Toy Town meets Holby City. And I was open mouthed when I spied the main prosecution witness. It was Farmer Evans. I shook my head in disbelief. "Pulling himself up to his full height of five foot four - a small git like me - Colonel Roberts asked Evans if he would prefer to give his evidence in Welsh. Whoa, Vernon and I leaped to our feet and put the kybosh on that little caper immediately. The Colonel snarled back, 'I don't want you fancy

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pants, city lawyers telling me how to run my court, but I will allow it in English'. I knew then I'd pissed him off from the start. "He turns to Evans and asks how he first met me. 'Oh, I dunno. I was picking me potatoes like and he said he wanted to have a barbecue at my farm, you see.' 'Yes, Yes but what then?' demanded the Colonel rising to the moment. 'Well, you see sir, I didn't know what a barbecue was.' And the first hint that this was going to become a farce began to surface. 'So, now Mr Evans, NOW indeed you know what degradation and degeneracy comes from these barbecue matters. I bet you wouldn't allow another one'. Evans scratched his china and muttered, 'Oh, I don't know though, it seemed rather like good fun to me. "Roberts looked crestfallen and even the magistrates with him were trying to stifle their laughter and I leaned to Vernon and said even if we do get done, it doesn't matter as this is a great laugh. "Colonel Roberts was getting into his stride by then and wheeled in other witnesses: the fucking people who'd gate crashed, the ones we'd let in for free and lashed out drink and food to. They said, 'Yes we could hear the music and we went up, like, and then when we arrived at the farm we were astonished. There were all these black men banging away on oil drums. Amazin' it was'. And Roberts leaned forward breathing hard and shouted, 'Yes, yes and then?' 'Oh, well you see they were bloody marvellous, bloody marvellous they were.' And the whole court was in hysterics - the colonel excepted who was trying to get them to confess that they'd bought ale. 'Oh, well, can't remember that bit but we'd spotted this suckling pig being roasted on a fire and that was very fine indeed.' Roberts seemed overjoyed and said, 'So, boyo, you were attracted by the pungent smell of roasting flesh were you then? And on the Sabbath.' "I couldn't believe this farce, he was really having his day in court "And then stuff me, the guy who sold me the booze - this shifty eyed publican bastard - told the court that he figured my prices were bloody outrageous, even criminal that night. Vernon jumped up and pointed out that he'd sold the booze in the first instance, and at pub prices. 'If anyone should be prosecuted, my good man, it is YOU! "He turned to the court and began a diatribe, 'I am the official police prosecutor for the Liverpool Vice Squad and we constantly have to raid pubs for serving drinks without a licence. There is no evidence here of wrong doing, no samples, no laboratory tests were taken. When we raid what we call a shebeen we take samples for testing. Mr Williams hasn't even been charged with selling spirits, which is the real offence. He has no case to answer.' "Huffing and puffing the Colonel and his mates got in a huddle and after a few moments the clerk of the court remarked, 'Well, he has a point, there doesn't seem to be a proper charge to answer here. You don't have any samples.' "The whole case came crashing to a halt amidst gales of laughter and then as we were trooping out of the hall the local police, who were our pals by then, said they had really enjoyed the fun. 'But you must be hungry. Come and have a meal with us.' The colonel was almost apoplectic with rage. I was in fits of laughter. "Mind you, as we were driving home Vernon revealed - to my horror -that he had been quite nervous for a while. If they had assembled the case correctly and had won, I was looking at a custodial sentence. What? I bellowed. 'But it would only have been about six months/ he laughed. I gulped, thinking that I'd just escaped a spell in a Welsh nick by the skin of me teeth, or rather the froth on a pint of beer. It was only a few miles from where my dad's family had been born and there was still relations living there, the shame would have been awful. Never again, I promised myself. But that was bollocks as usual. "Liverpool was buzzing and I was frequently in the cheerful company of my buddy Bill Marshall, who is also my son Justin's godfather, as was another pal the late Alun Owen, the playwright who wrote the script for UK CHARITYPREMIERE the Beatles Hard Days Night movie, which launched the band's brief screen career. "Alun and I had been friends for years and he was really embarrassed at the way I was treated like a leper at the premiere bash of that shindig in 1964, even in Liverpool.

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"If it hadn't been for Alun I would have been totally left out in the cold, snubbed by the Beatles only a few years after I'd been their mentor and guide. I began to suspect that the Gods had it in for me." Joking apart, Allan was smarting real sore at what was obviously a gaffe on the part of the organisers but it was a fact that the man who some say did help kick start Beatlemania wasn't invited to the Fab Four's debut film. It was by any standards a disgraceful omission and no one ever apologised. "Ah well, I'm over it now and figure that they all had short memories," he chortles, but every now and again that snub still does secretly rankle him. It was to be four decades later that Allan was finally brought in from the cold over this issue when he was a guest at a planned celebrity-packed UK charity premiere of a sparking new digitally remastered version of the movie. And his partner for the evening was his then paramour Beryl Adams, Brian Epstein's first secretary who also recalled that she wasn't invited to attend that original showing either, even though she was at the time working at the Cavern Club. The latter day high profile glitzy event was organised by BAFTA North and was held at Liverpool's celebrated Philharmonic Hall with all proceeds in aid of the Linda McCartney Centre, a specialist cancer unit linked to the Royal Liverpool Hospital. A delighted if wistful Allan recalled how all those years before on the evening of July 10th 1964 he stood alone outside Liverpool's Odeon Cinema in the pouring rain as hordes of celebrities from all over the world - many of them his pals and acquaintances in the music business - gathered in their finery and then later flocked to a grand, civic reception and slap up feed in the city's town hall. The film had already been given a royal premiere - and a hearty thumbs up - four days earlier at the London Pavilion before HRH Princess Margaret and the Earl of Snowdon; Tony Snowdon actually knew Liverpool fairly well as he'd spent part of his childhood in a Liverpool hospital being treated for tuberculosis. In fact Allan did manage to sneak into that first Liverpool premiere. He was smuggled in when Alun Owen spotted him standing forlornly on the wet pavement. Waving him over, he asked Allan if he was on his way into the show. "Nah, I said, I haven't been invited, I'm not going. Alun Owen grasped my arm and said, 'Well I'm inviting yer. I wrote the blasted film. I want you to go in with my dad. His mother had died and he had a lovely relationship with his old father. And so I said, okay Alun, fine I'll go under those circumstances and he found me a seat next to his father at the back of the auditorium. But there was no recognition of Allan's presence, he was merely an outside observer at the evening's spectacle and at the end shuffled out by a side door as the laughter and banter rang around inside. "I'll always remember walking past the VIP room in the Odeon cinema in Liverpool and all the guys who never did a bleeding thing for the lads in those early days and I just couldn't steal myself to even go in the room. It was sickening all those guys who'd knocked the Beatles when I was managing them they were there schmoozing: all the professional cocktail drinkers, the first nighters, and the Hggers. "I'd sat down and watched the film and thought it was fine and then Alan Owen had joined us. When the subtitles came up I decided just to sidle out on my own and as I came out of the cinema it was still pissing down with rain. All these laughing, bright-eyed people were getting into big fancy limousines. They were all off to the Town Hall for the reception and I could see some of them pointing through the windows waving to me and saying, 'Look, there's Alan.' "But they didn't ask me to come along and there I was in the pissing rain on my own with a brolly wondering how things had come to this pass. "I suppose I was just forgotten by them but was still very hurt at the time," says Allan although he insists that the bitterness has long since evaporated. "It was really wonderful that Beryl and I were asked to the updated premiere and I was hoping that one of the surviving Beatles might have turned up." That didn't happen. Instead the pleading words of John Lennon's evocative song Help were ringing around the Hall when the stars failed to appear. Absent from the throng of third rate celebrities were

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proper Liverpool household names like Ricky Tomlinson, playwrights Jimmy McGovern and Alan Bleasdale - and even the film's original director Dick Lester who'd been expected. Even Mike McCartney, Paul's younger brother, didn't show and he lives on the Wirral, a short car journey to the theatre. And an appearance by the erstwhile Beatles drummer Pete Best didn't materialise. It was left to a handful of simpering starlets from television's Hollyoaks soap opera cast to provide the glitter; and none of them were even born when the film was first shown. The only real Beatles connection at what BAFTA had hoped would be a star-studded event were Allan and Beryl. How Allan wallowed in the vicarious pleasure of that delicious irony. He was also vastly amused as the closest thing to a Mop Top was the arrival of Paul McCartney look-alike Paul Cooper from the Bootleg Beatles, hailed globally as the group's leading tribute band. In fact they have now performed live more times than their progenitors. "Hi Paul, I yelled across the foyer and he turned and was taken aback to see me standing there grinning like a Cheshire cat." Paul McCartney later was to express his surprise when the event was mentioned to him in conversation, and that all the proceeds were going to the Linda McCartney centre. He knew nothing about the second premiere or the donation to his late wife's cancer fund. So with a serious shortage of so-called famous faces at the Philharmonic Hall and a phalanx of press photographers gagging for someone of note, anyone, to fill their lenses, Allan and Beryl were unexpectedly pitched into the spotlight. "I joked with Beryl that John Lennon was probably looking on, swigging back his favourite whisky and Coke, and having a good laugh at the piss poor turn out. I certainly was." Then auld comic fate dealt a double whammy to Allan after he was snubbed for the second time at a premiere of Hard Day's Night. After spending hours helping to publicise the event - which did actually raise 10,000 for the new Linda McCartney Cancer Centre - he was totally ignored by BAFTA representatives after the film ended and even obliged to buy his own drinks. "There wa^ this crowd of screeching, yahooing television kids all clattering towards a fleet of cars to take them to a lavish reception in one of Liverpool's top night clubs. Even though our gold-edged invite had promised 'carriages available' we had to go under our own steam. Naturally it was raining. After splashing half way across the city in the lashing rain we found hundreds of 'friends of BAFTA' already jamming the joint. "We pushed through the throngs in the door to be greeted by this horrendous racket of electronic music and no one bothered to welcome us. We were left to fend for ourselves. So after a few minutes of this bedlam, I grabbed Beryl's hand and we tottered off to the Post House pub to have a drink with real friends," commented Allan, who nevertheless felt it had put a damper on what had been an otherwise exciting evening. "It ended up in effect a reprise of the original shindig when I'd only got in because of my mate Alun Owen," he grunted. Way back then Allan had been a close chum of Owen for years and the writer was a regular patron of the Blue Angel whenever he was in Liverpool visiting friends, family or for work. "He also had this holiday home in mid Wales and used to drink in a pub called the Black Lion in Cardigan. It was a huge joint with a coach house for live music. Once the owner knew that we were pals I became the agent for sending bands there. That was good fun and was one of the reasons I got involved with a show that Alun wrote," comments Allan. In the mid 1960s Owen had written a stage musical called Maggie May - based on the folklore tale of the Liverpool prostitute - with the choreographer and composer Lionel Bart. They needed a good backing band and had asked Allan to find a rock and roll group from amongst his contacts and this he duly did. "But I can't remember the name now, don't even know if they were any good. S'pose they must have been. "The Maggie May show opened at the Palace Theatre in Manchester's Oxford Road to huge acclaim in that city but because Alun was very fond of the Blue Angel back in Liverpool - and it had a glowing reputation - he inquired if they could hire it for the first night party.

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"I thought it was a bit far but naturally agreed," says Allan. The show got a standing ovation and later rave reviews and the entire cast, high as kites on the adrenalin and I suspected other substances, came flooding over to Liverpool in a fleet of cars and coaches. "I opened the door to find of all people Judy Garland and her husband of the time smiling in at me. I wondered if he was gay, as several of her previous spouses had been. I also wondered if she was high on drugs because that was what eventually killed her." She was a good friend of Lionel Bart and there was a rumour flying around that he was seriously considering her for the lead when the show opened in London and, more probably he wanted her for the Broadway run in New York. "Judy was performing in London at the time and Bart had invited her to the first night of 'Maggie' up north, which must have really annoyed Rachel Roberts who was in the role in Manchester. She was married to actor Rex Harrison and I soon spotted them hustling in the door. My, my, I thought, this is shaping up to be a humdinger of a night. "But I was getting increasingly nervous knowing that thespians tend to be a bit slow on coughing up the 'ackers' (cash) for drinks. They mostly expected them to be on the house. There's dozens of the bastards, I mused. I'll be broke by the end of this bash. "I casually sauntered over to Alun and Lionel Bart and muttered that it was great having them there but, erm, 'Look Alan, I can't afford to pay for this lot free.' "He grinned at me and said: 'Of course, I'll tell everyone it's a pay bar and that lets you off the hook.' I was relieved. "None of this crew had arrived until midnight and the club was closed to everyone but the Maggie May crowd. Everything was going great guns and I was definitely intending to get sloshed blind. In fact, I was well on the way. I glanced out of my eye and saw this guy Mark Heron, Garland's current husband, heading for the bar. "I turned as I heard the grand piano tinkling away in the main lounge room of the club and there was Judy Garland singing. Here only a few feet away from me was the living legend Judy Garland, considered by many to be a flawed genius. "She seemed very happy and was obviously enjoying herself, and in my club. I was over the moon. But I had taken a few drinks and was in a playful mood. "I wandered over to the piano and bellowed at Judy to 'shut that fucking noise up' as I wanted to sing. She was a bit startled at this but I was laughing fit to bust. It was only a joke but I think she took it personally. "By this time Mark had ordered her a shot of her favourite vodka tipple - and I was most impressed as this was also mine - and I heard the barman say: 'That'll be two shillings, sir.' Without batting an eye this comedian leans over the bar and loudly announces: 'I'm with Judy Garland.' And then he winked. But our Scouse barmen are well used to scam merchants and he quickly responded, 'Sure I know that, good for you me old son, but everyone is paying, even Lionel Bart. And he's the boss.' "With that Mark Heron turned to a pal of his and borrowed the two bob - he was muttering about never carrying any money - and with a snarl he flung it at the barman. "That really upset me. I treated the staff with respect. Blazing mad, I hurled the microphone away, pushed past Judy and launched into Heron with a string of profanities about bad manners and 'who the hell did he think he was'...that sort of thing. "He growled at me and she hustled him away and they both stormed off out. I grimaced at that, even though I was sozzled. In effect I'd thrown the great Judy Garland out of my club, although I was trying to explain -rather badly and incoherently - that she was okay, it was just her husband who was the asshole. I suspect she didn't know what was going on, she just wanted to sing and have a good time. "I felt a sudden surge of guilt at this and as Judy clambered into her waiting limo I grabbed a bottle of vodka from behind the bar, a sort of parting gift. She glared back at me. "It ended with me chasing off down Seel Street after the American star's sleek black, chauffer driven limousine waving the bottle of vodka as a sorry gesture, as a sort of peace offering. The cars tyres swished on the wet tarmac. Bye, bye, Judy, I sighed. It was short and not even sweet.

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"Mind you, she did lean out of the window and grabbed the bottle of vodka. I shrugged and the party went on without them in terrific style. I figured that would be the last I'd ever see of her. "At her last performance at the Palladium in London the newspapers reported that she was obviously a 'wreck' through drugs. What a tragedy, once the most talented performer of her generation." Certainly after The Wizard of Oz she was one of the biggest stars in the USA. From then on her career seesawed with ominous regularity and legendary appearances such as that at the Palace Theatre in New York or the Palladium in London were followed by tragic suicide attempts. "Sad really how she ended up, she was one of my heroines. She died in 1969. But all that was to come. Yeh, I reckoned that glimpse of her vanishing into the Liverpool night was the last time I would clap eyes on Our Judy. This just proves how wrong can you be when placing a bet even with yourself." Months later Judy Garland was on a night out in London with her elder daughter Lisa Minelli. They were trawling the nightspots on one of their regular appearances just to be spotted. The risque female impersonator Danny La Rue owned one such venue, He was then big in showbiz circles in Britain. That was where the girls were headed. The glorious twist was that Allan also happened to be in London and was enjoying an evening with Cilia Black and her - now deceased - husband Bobby "I'd remained pals with Cilia and whenever I was in town I always gave her a call. "It was funny really because it was the time that Cilia Black was doing pantomime at the London Palladium and she invited me and my wife Beryl to go and see the show in London. Afterwards she took us to a famous nightclub restaurant owned by Danny La Rue and Cilia and Bobby paid for everything. "I'm quietly sitting there minding my own business lapping up the free booze as usual when I look up and blurt out: 'Bloody hell! Its Judy/ All eyes turned to me in shock but I was just staring as in walked Judy Garland with Lisa Minelli in tow both of them making dramatic and stylised movements." As she and Lisa sashayed through the tables Garland almost literally fell over Williams. She recoiled back and squawked in mock horror as she eyed him up and down: "Oh my gawd, there's that dreadful, loud little Welsh mad man that I told you about, dahling! The lunatic in Liverpool." Then, her head hurled back in a wide howl of laughter. She hurried Lisa past the table where Williams sat with a wide-eyed, open mouthed Cilia Black who'd never even met Garland much less told her to shut up, and certainly not in such a profane way. "Incredulous Cilia turned to me and asked 'Allan, what the hell was all that about?' Oh, yeh, I think I must be the only person to have ordered Judy Garland to stop singing. Erm - and I think I did blush slightly at this point - and I think told her to fuck off as well, a while back in Liverpool. She was a bit upset as I recall. Cilia was in hysterics, the tears of laughter flowed down her cheeks. "Oh, Al, you are a one. You never change.' Over the years the celebrities piled across the Blue Angel threshold and this reminds Allan about how in a sozzled state he told another famous singer to 'shut his gob'. This was the time he mixed up singer Tom Jones with the late actor John Gregson, both guests at his nightclub. "I was mesmerised by Tom Jones and with my own Welsh ancestry reckoned we would hit it off. But he seemed strangely distant, looking confused as I babbled away. And the guy I thought was John Gregson - who was Tom Jones - kept trying to interrupt, to say something. Allan kept warning the Welsh pop star to 'shut his gob', that he was trying to talk to the great Tom Jones. Gregson, completely thrown by the surreal experience, was reduced to spluttering in his attempts to clear up the misunderstanding. Jones continued to press his case but this incensed Allan further and he snarled: "Look, lad. John, me old mate. I'm trying to have a chat with Tom Jones here, see, so will you please just clear off and find yourself a drink, a woman or something to occupy your bloody mind."

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Turning to Gregson, who was shaking his head in disbelief, he added: "I know that git from somewhere but if he doesn't start behaving he's out of here on his ear, and make no mistake. Now, where were we Tom?" Despite Gregson's vain attempts Williams was like a terrier with a rag doll, the light not evening dawning when two young girls guests began to ask the film star for his autograph. "I continued calling him Tom - well they were both quite small like me and looked similar in the dark. The real Tom Jones kept on staring at me and asking repeatedly what was going on, I'm sure he thought I was taking the mickey but I had genuinely mixed them up. "I snapped then. You've been trying to take the piss out of me all night, you bastard," I bellowed, poking Tom Jones in the gut. Exasperated Tom Jones grabbed my arm and began to talk loudly in his Welsh accent but even then I didn't click as Gregson tried to wriggle out of my sight towards the bar. "I blazed back at the now totally bemused Tom, 'Look, for fuck's sake, will you just shut your gob for once. I am trying to talk to Tom Jones, here mate.' By then I was well plastered of course and became infuriated with them both. "I turned on my heel and spat out: "Oh, sod off then you dickheads. I've had enough of the pair of you." They stared at me in amazement, too surprised to respond. They hadn't done anything wrong. I was the one who'd rucked up. What a laugh. I didn't find out until the next day. Boy was I embarrassed." And while Cilia Black is fresh in the memory, Allan insists that he was the one who first brought her to the attention of Brian Epstein. "She used to sing around with a lot of the groups when she was called Pricilla White, in particular the Big Three, and I knew her well as she was a regular in the club. One night she came into the Blue Angel with Bobby - they were inseparable - and Epstein was also there with one of the girls he used as a camouflage for his homosexual activities. By this stage he was something of a name and a character himself in Liverpool as the Beatles were on their way to the top. "I tugged at Cilia's sleeve and hinted that she should get up and sing while Epstein was around. 'Just try a couple of songs and see if he shows any interest/ I urged her because I knew she had talent and great potential. She looked at little nervous and I nodded that it was okay; I'd fix it with the band who were playing. "I regularly booked a modern jazz quartet for the evening sessions, as they were a rather sophisticated sound. Off I trundled to have a quiet word in the ear of John Woodman, the bandleader. "He bluntly refused, much to my amazement. "We are not playing for her, she can't sing/' John barked angrily. I sighed; they were dedicated jazz musos with delicate egos that needed massaging. I mean it wasn't as if they were ever gonna be huge stars themselves. But I played the game and pleaded her case. "Just this once but don't make an issue of it," snarled John. I grinned back. "Cilia got up and although fidgety I must admit she did sound terrific, even John Woodman grudgingly agreed that 'she was on form that night' and I noticed Epstein throw a glance her way ever so often. Then when she finished he called her over and invited her to see him at his office. He was obviously feeling good and generous that night and said to Cilia: 'I'd like to manage you.' "And that's the real story of how Cilia joined the Brian Epstein circle. It was nothing at all to do with him hearing her sing in the Cavern. It was that short gig in the Blue Angel and Cilia has actually confirmed that as true. "There is all that bollocks and myth about how she was discovered in the Cavern as a simple cheeky hat check girl and how Epstein stumbled on her by accident. Crap. She was already singing around the clubs and it was the Blue Angel that sealed her fame and fortune. In effect she got her big break thanks to me." Allan spent years rubbing shoulders with the stars at the Blue Angel, and in the early to mid sixties it was one of only five proper clubs - such as the Pink Parrot and the Iron Door and the Cavern of

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course - operating across the whole of Liverpool. "We were there right at the beginning and we had a licence for late drinking, which was unusual. Then suddenly the big cabaret clubs came into fashion, joints like Mr Pickwicks, the She Club and later the Wooky Hollow, which could hold up to 1,000 people. The Blue Angel was lucky to accommodate 300 at a push. "I struggled to keep the Blue going until the early 70s but it was starting to deteriorate and eventually I sold it off. In fact, I gave the fucking place away. I should regret that, too, but I don't." In its heyday the club was a real pull, an attraction for the public and stars alike. Allan recalls the instance when singer Tommy Steele booked the club to throw a fabulous first night party after a show at the Empire theatre in Liverpool's Lime Street. "It was to be a surprise for the cast and he'd also booked the Odeon cinema around the corner from the theatre for a late movie as a thank you. Then they all strolled back to the Blue Angel for this thrash. It was a gas of a night and Tommy and I became firm friends...until he also did the dirty on me." Steele was a popular and agreeable star who was regarded as the English teenager who let the genie out of the bottle in terms of the sweeping change of musical taste, even if he wasn't actually the genie himself. He had enjoyed hits with a cover of Guy Mitchell's Singing the Blues and in 1960 he scored a Top Ten single with Little White Bull, a children's song taken from his earlier movie Tommy the Toreador. But he was to go on and become a singing sensation on the London stage with the musical Half A Sixpence. "Steele was managed by Larry Parnes, along with Billy Fury and Marty Wilde - remember Parnes and I were sorta mates from those very early audition days of the Beatles - and one day I had a phone call from one of Larry's flunkeys asking if the piano in the Blue was tuned to concert pitch. "Sure, I said, it's done regularly because of all the professional musicians we get in here. Why? "He explained that they would like to come along after Steele's show in Liverpool that night as there was a chap who'd written a musical and he wants Tommy to star and sing in it. He wants to come along and play the music for Tommy just to get his views on it. "Hey, that sounds interesting. Of course you can borrow the club, and free of charge. No problem There was later, though, as my mate Bill Marshall, the journalist, was pissed out of his mind and demanding that he be allowed to sit and watch while this guy played the music to Tommy Steele. I mean of all people I wasn't going to chastise Bill." The guy in question was the lyricist David Heneker who had been commissioned to write a rock musical for Steele and instead had put together a series of songs and the music for a show based on the novel Kipps by H G Wells. Two of the songs were to become huge hits for Steele, the title number Half A Sixpence and Flash, Bang, Wallop, based on a wedding scene in the show. It took the London stage by storm in 1963, moved to Broadway in 1965 and was turned into a successful movie two years later. "So there was Tommy Steele, all bright eyed and with that dazzling toothy smile spread over his face listening to the music and songs that would make him an even bigger star while my mucker Bill was bellowing: "Yeh, yeh, you've gotta do this show Tommy. Great. Fucking great!" I saw people wincing. "It was a huge joke to me because Tommy knew that Bill was from the Daily Mirror so didn't dare say anything in case he blew the gaff on the deal that was being set up. David Heneker was in my club making his pitch to Larry Parnes and his partner Johnny Kennedy, and of course Tommy Steele. I was quite smug because everything that happened in Liverpool seemed to happen in the Blue. "Years later though I was really annoyed when Tommy Steele was talking about how he got hold of Half A Sixpence, telling about the time he first heard the songs. 'Oh, yeh. It was in a club in Liverpool. I think it was even the Cavern. "Once again I was in a blazing rage. I thought you lying toad. I loaned you the Blue Angel for nothing all night long and because he reckoned the Cavern would garner more publicity he said it was there. He wouldn't even give the Blue Angel a cursory mention, the miserable Cockney toe-rag.

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"Do you know why I know for sure it wasn't the Cavern? There was no piano in the Cavern. And I can still trust my own eyes and ears. I never forgave Tommy Steele for that dollop of treachery." Almost two decades later Steele remembered his debt to Liverpool when he funded and unveiled the Eleanor Rigby statue around the corner from Mathew Street in December 1982. Another escapade in Allan's catalogue of sorrows was the disappearance of the original piano lid from the Blue. "I had this grand piano located centrally on the ground floor, in what I fondly called the 'piano bar' while the jazz music was always in the basement. The piano was so old and kept falling out of tune that in the end the pianists were giving me so much bloody grief, moaning that they couldn't play it anymore. I had to get shut of it. "But in another stroke of genius I kept the kidney shaped lid and nailed it to the wall of the lounge bar. For years every famous artist who came into the Blue Angel signed that lid. "I mean, almost everyone who was anyone in show business came to the Blue. And I can honestly say hand on heart that I don't recall a single fight or even any real misbehaviour, apart from my own that is. "Even the Rolling Stones played there for me for nothing. They would be on tour and call and ask if they could come down after the show because the Blue had this reputation as 'the' hotspot venue for the Liverpool groups. All the bands from down south would be desperate to get in and play a short set just to show off. The Stones were regulars and of course they signed the piano lid. "The bloody piano lid was becoming famous - and valuable - in its own right with all these celebrities signing it and writing greetings Ha, even my old pal Judy Garland scrawled her name on it before I threw her out. "But the story of how I lost that glorious piano lid hurts me almost as much as losing the Beatles, if not more. After a while the punters were becoming stupid and writing silly things like 'Mickey Mouse Was Here' and I thought, bugger that, it will make it worthless. You see I wasn't all that daft. I had an eye for turning a shilling or two. "To save it being ruined one day I took it down and stored it in my office, remarking to myself that one day this will be worth something. "As it turned out on one occasion I had a cash flow situation and wondered if I could alleviate this by flogging off the piano lid through Sotheby's in London. I scoured the office for it but there was no sign. "I asked everyone in the club and stood rooted to the spot when someone told me that Rufus the odd job man had taken it away. Seems I had asked him to make a cupboard under the stairs in the Blue to store mops and brushes. I could feel this cold chill wafting over me. "It seems dear old Rufus had found the piano lid. 'Ah, that piece of old board will do nicely for the job'. And sure enough without a by your leave he cut it up to make a door for this cupboard and painted over it. I am not joking. I was devastated. "I couldn't rant and rave at him as he was a bit loopy anyway But that board, that piano lid, was almost priceless and it ended up as a mop cupboard with the signatures of all the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, Judy Garland, Rex Harrison and every other star of the day you could mention banished and blanked under a layer of red paint. "The stars still flocked to the Blue Angel but I didn't have the heart to pin up another piano lid. Bob Wooler used to send a lot of them along after they'd appeared in Liverpool at the Cavern or other clubs. There wasn't any real action in that scene in those days, as the clubs weren't licensed. "Sure enough all the big names wanted to perform at the Cavern because of its name but later Bob would haul along anyone who was interested - and old enough - to fill their boots with booze at the Blue. "Ha, I remember the time Bob Dylan was refused entry because the manager at the Blue considered that he was too much of a scruffy bastard." Dylan was in the company of 'writer' Bill Harry and he'd come to Liverpool to see his mate Alan Ginsberg the American writer who was living in the city at the time and was a great friend of the late Liverpool poet Adrian Henri, ranked with Roger McGough and Brian Patten as the Scouse literary equivalent of the Beatles.

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"Harry, pretentious as ever, was loudly pointing out that this guy next to him was Bob Dylan: the great fucking Bob Dylan. But my manager was sticking to his guns. 'I don't care if he's the Angel Gabriel, he's not setting foot in here dressed like a fucking tramp. No way, and that's it me old mate/ spat out in that derogatory manner which indicates that 'mate' is the last thing you are. "I overheard this from the stairs and was mightily tickled pink. I let it drag on for a bit because it was great fun watching Bob Dylan shuffle around outside the Blue Angel while Bill Harry was almost on his knees begging for admission. If he and Dylan had any sense or real pride they'd have told us to get stuffed. But that was the draw of the Blue in those days. It was the 'in' place. "After a few more moments gleefully enjoying their discomfort I jumped in and calmed the manager down. "It's okay, on this occasion we can let them in. 'Please, lads, Mr Dylan, come into the Blue Angel. Welcome/ I put on my oozing ingratiating act. Shit that gave me a huge buzz of pleasure and satisfaction, still does for that matter. Of course Bill Harry denies it ever happened but then he would even though he's spent his life spinning yarns that make children's fairy tales sound like grim war atrocities." Bill Harry, in his turn, has delivered a few sharp knocks to Allan's image, the most recent in the summer of 2002 with a strangely vitriolic, scornful diatribe in the influential American based Beatlef an magazine - it describes itself as the authoritative publication of record for fans of the Beatles. In a two page feature titled 'Allan Williams: The Manager Who Never Was' the former Merseybeat newspaper editor, one time press and public relations spin doctor and now himself a chronicler of the Beatles, systematically attempted to rubbish the provenance of Allan's Beatles background. Displaying incongruous literary awareness, within the first paragraph Harry dismantled his own argument that alleged and suggested that Allan was a fraud; a similar line to that taken by others like pundit Mark Lewishon, who wrote The Beatles Live! One sentence was enough to squash the Bill Harry charges: 'The Beatles eventually and generously referred to him (Allan Williams) as their 'first manager' in the Anthology video.' Right. Noted. The remaining 800 brackish words of bile merely blunder on trying to destabilise those early remarks. Allan smirks: "That says it all really. The dickhead. But I was - and am - hopping mad that Bill Harry still has a desperate need to resort to this form of character assassination. He must have a really sad life." As for the Blue Angel? Fed up with the way it was going down market through no fault of his own, Allan literally walked away empty handed from the club he had nurtured, handing it over lock, stock and barrel to another club owner. "After ten years towards the end I hated it because it was becoming full of villains. Once the gambling act came in it just went down the nick. That turning point in the law was the licence for all the gangsters to get involved." And, typically - some would say again, insanely - Allan never got a penny for the club that had set the social pace in Liverpool for a decade. In a fit of pique and melancholy one day he simply gave it to an acquaintance, a guy Allan prefers to keep anonymous because he still has interests in clubs and pubs around Liverpool. "I told him I just didn't like the place anymore. It's yours and all I want is a little money every month. Of course he never did pay me. He eventually sold the old place and became a very rich guy. Just another stupidly tragic story in my life."

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6 - yet for all those friends and lovers, there is no one compared to Beryl and Boh After sussing out how the clubs like the Kaiser Keller and the Star Club, as well as the Indra for that matter, were a knockout in Hamburg Allan returned to Liverpool in December 1960 determined to open his own Top Ten Club in the city. It was to be an identi-kit replica of the leading Hamburg venue complete with garish ultra-violet lights and other gimmicks. He reckoned it would revolutionise the social set on the banks of the Mersey. "It hit me like a bolt from the blue that there was a big business happening, that this rock and roll scene wasn't a flash in the pan. And I soon realised that hardly anyone else in Liverpool had cottoned on that the jazz scene was on its last legs. Of course, I had the Jacaranda but this would be different. "The whole town was buzzing with gossip and chatter about all the new groups who seemed to have emerged from the woodwork. Hey, if I could get a big place going like the Top Ten in Hamburg I could clean up. "At the time Ray McFall, who owned the Cavern was still convinced that jazz would never die and was only making a tentative foray into beat music. But I was sending all these groups to Hamburg but needed a place to for them to play when they came back. "Most were still appearing in church halls, local baths and venues out of town such as Litherland Town Hall or in New Brighton. I thought we could really hit the mark with a city centre venue; pretty sure the kids would flock to it. "Apart from that I had this grand vision that the Beatles could be the stars, it could be their musical home. "And I knew the very place. It was an old warehouse, a former sawmill in Soho Street off Islington, just a short hop from Lime Street. Couldn't be better, even if it was a bit of a rough area. "I had persuaded Bob Wooler to give up his day job as a railway parcels clerk. I was sure he had the talent to be a full time compere and dj. He also knew all the local groups and the deal was he would hire them. He agreed because he was desperate to be in show business. Mind you, he never really liked the club as he found the customers a bit too tough for his liking. "He wasn't that keen on the decor either and I must admit I didn't do my homework on the location on this warehouse. It had a wooden floor for a dance hall and low beams, which meant I had to paint luminous warning as even at 5'3" I was banging my head. "But I was excited and booked me old mate Howie Casey as the first band to appear. Within the first week business was going great guns. The kids from the nearby tenements and others from all over the city flocked there to watch the live groups who were gagging to play. The loot was rolling in." There are many stories still circulating about what happened next and Allan still fizzes a bit with anger at the rumours that were spread about him. Only eight days after opening the Top Ten Club was razed to the ground in a fierce fire that lit up the night skyline of Liverpool. Miraculously it broke out after that evening's mob of 300 or so punters had left. The official report indicated faulty wiring. "I got this phone call and dashed down to find it already mostly gone. I suppose I was very lucky it happened in the middle of the night and not when the place was packed. Someone would have been killed for sure, and Bob would have just gone up in flames himself because he was usually doused in his favourite tipple of dark navy rum. It was Allan and Bob's first business venture together, although Wooler didn't put any money in the project. Until the day he died Bob relentlessly accused Allan of burning the place down for the

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insurance money. It was to symbolise their symbiotic yet bickering relationship. "The cheeky bastard. Once the Beatles were in residency after Hamburg it was going to be a cash cow, I could see that. The police and the fire brigade carried out a thorough search and confirmed it was because of overheating in the electrical system." Allan confesses he could have sobbed for weeks, especially as he insists the first official contract deal between him and the Beatles had been in the office and was burned to ashes. "I'd covered the cost of starting it up from the Jacaranda but that blaze put paid to my hopes for a permanent home for the Beatles. "Of course it was the Cavern that took advantage of what was probably the first of my flop stories. It was also the Cavern that finally made Bob's name and reputation; he overlooks that. The set back, harsh as it was, didn't stop me from opening the Blue Angel, though. I was determined to open a top-notch club, come hell or high water." In the interim Allan asked Bob to look after the groups for him and he found venues like Queens Hall in Widnes but I was too busily involved in the other activities and I suppose I did let him down really, cause I didn't realise that his whole heart and soul was to do with looking after the groups. "He never once told me had any regrets about giving up that railway job until years later not long before he died when he launched into me in Keith's Wine Bar. In a tirade of abuse he accused me of ruining his life. "He ranted that we could have ruled the roost and blamed me, shouting that we could have had the Beatles; he and I could have had the Beatles together. He even insisted that he could've been the manager of the Beatles as nobody was interested in them at that period because they'd been buried away in Hamburg for seven months. "I was stunned as he had never been this fired up, even though we've been friends and done promotions together all over the years everywhere, he never raised this matter. Seems he was very bitter because he thought we could have had the whole scene. But I wasn't all that interested in the groups then, my business was the clubs and I was planning to open the Blue Angel. "Sure, if you like, my boats had burnt, to so speak, with the Top Ten and I was trying to salvage the mess there because the insurance wouldn't pay out. They said I couldn't show a profit or loss after only five days trading and they sneered that they didn't know if it was gonna last ten years or ten minutes. "Bob forgot all that when he was spitefully telling me how pissed off he was that the Jacaranda was a little goldmine and I had all these fancy cars. He said I drove around as thought I was a kingpin while he had given up a safe job. But I was never the kingpin, just an entrepreneur keen to make a few bob. Isn't that what they are all at? "As for this shite that we could have had the Beatles and all the other groups sewn up, well I suppose I did hanker after making a success of the Top Ten with the groups. Looking back now I suppose Bob was bitter because he thought he could've been Brian Epstein. But frankly, no I don't think Bob could have handled the Beatles on his own. They'd have had him for breakfast; even Brian Epstein couldn't control them in the end. "The bottom line is the Beatles wouldn't have given Bob a second glance; they wanted the best to manage them because they wanted to be the best group in the world. That was always the intention. So, there was poor old Bob blaming me but it was obviously pent up anger. He must have been harbouring it for years and he was then like a broken old man. I used to mock him that he was just a lonely vinegar queen. "I suspect that what angered and hurt him most is that the Beatles are on record as agreeing that Hamburg was the most important part of their early career. Sure I wasn't managing them like Brian Epstein but I was the catalyst. That Hamburg scene changed it for all the groups and Bob wasn't involved in that. "What was to stop Bob doing it himself? The whole scene was wide open which is why Epstein was able to clean up. I even told Bob that he could book the Beatles into venues, I didn't mind. Yeh, maybe I should have noticed that the opportunities were endless but I had my clubs. "Then, for sure Bob did get the Beatles into the Cavern and he does get credit for that. It was largely

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because Bob was out on a limb because of the Top Ten disaster. He met Ray McFall and argued that he should wind up the jazz and book the Beatles. He was very persuasive. "Now everyone knows that the Cavern is famous because they played there, not the other way round. When the joint was on its way out they appealed to the Beatles for help but Lennon remarked, 'We owe the Cavern nothing. The Cavern didn't make us, we made the Cavern'. "It was all bollocks Bob claiming we could've had the whole scene tied up and that I let him down. He was always the big talker, and I was the doer. If I say I'm gonna do something then I do it, even if I make a lot of stupid mistakes. Nine out of ten of my schemes end in disaster but one will be good, and that's fine for me. I've made so many mistakes and so often that half the time most haven't caught up with me yet," and he roars with laughter. Friends meeting Wooler in his final years and even casually mentioning Allan would often bring on an attack of rage in Bob that many reckoned could turn into an embolism. He would rail that Allan never saw the Beatles play at the Cavern, not once in over 300 shows - lunchtime or night, the last being in August 1963. There was even that year an all night session at the Majestic in Birkenhead, with award ceremonies for the groups, the first time ever, and the Beatles were there. Did AW show up? He did not! He simply wasn't interested in the Beatles'. One quiet Saturday morning a few months before he fell fatally ill Bob had suggested that he would like to reminisce over the business ventures he had shared with Allan. He was in Keith's - his favoured watering hole for daytime socializing - drinking weak tea, always poured from a white china pot. He appeared grumpy and shifted in his seat with a scowl, his eyes pale and watery, filling up with tears like limpid pools, 'He and I could've done it. There was no Epstein then, no one around.. .just us. It was in our grasp, ours for the taking.' There was a weary resignation hovering over him as he went on, 'I asked him (Williams), begged him even but he was just a playboy, running around town in his Jaguar car. He just let it slip away. Then I gave Epstein all my ideas when he began promoting the Beatles. I have despaired of Allan all these years. He just had no concern for detail and needed someone like myself.' He begins too reel off a long list of long forgotten, long closed venues where the ghosts only waft around in his memory, and those like him who find solace in sparring with the spirits. He was no doubt about it a mine of statistics and kept copious, meticulous notes over the years, about everything: slips of paper, copies of newspaper articles, magazines, brochures, posters, programmes, letters and sad, obscure anecdotes which are of no intrinsic value, or indeed any other value apart from being droplets of history; a crude form of journalism. As for Allan's assertion that he was the Beatles' first manager, Wooler would raise a quizzical eyebrow - another of his personal traits - purse his lips and fix a companion with a gimlet eye: 'Well he would say that wouldn't he, to quote Mandy Rice Da vies.' (the model and call girl in the John Profumo ministerial sex scandal of the 1960s). 'Look, I've asked him many times to show me the contract he claims he had with the Beatles but he has repeatedly kept up the claim that is was burned in the Top Ten Club fire. There is no evidence.' Oddly contemptuous of the 'first hand reported evidence' in the Beatles Anthology, he turned away sighing, his hands ferreting tremulously over myriad papers splayed across the table: yellowing, tattered cuttings from the Merseybeat newspaper or the Liverpool Echo, the odd brochure and various letters that he would cart around in a plastic carrier bag. He would flourish and display this representation of his historical status to anyone foolish enough to inquire. 'Allan cocked so much up. We were pioneers with zest and enthusiasm, not the jaded, faded people full of carping as it has become/ his eyes flash and he's all fired up again, his body tense, lips narrow, shiny and leather like as they are drawn back in a pent up fury. 'Look, they (the Beatles) used to always ask me if he was coming to see them play - they would have loved him to be there, just once or twice - and I covered for him, covered up for him all those times. I mean, - and he turns his palms over in supplication here - he had a bloody Jaguar car and could easily have just driven to the shows. I had to get the bus everywhere.. .the bus! I get soooo frustrated still about it all... get so ruffled about what could have been/ and his head sinks down into his shoulders, as though in defeat.

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It was a cold Friday morning on February 8,2002 at 5.40am: that chilled, lowering, spooky period just before dawn. The telephone trilled hauling Allan into a grumbling consciousness. It was the Royal Liverpool Hospital. Bob Wooler had died ten minutes earlier. In a bitter sweet, achingly sad, resolution of fate, Allan was the nearest thing Bob had to next of kin. There was no one else to call. He had been in hospital for a month after collapsing in his small, lonely flat. He had hated the gross ignominy of his perceived public humiliation - even his private ablutions were performed in that ward - with a distress that was palpable. Within days of finding himself incarcerated in the austere ward X in the massive, anonymous hospital, Bob received bundles of cards, letters -e.mails even - from across the world. He was not as alone as he imagined. What really puffed up his self-esteem, which was by then almost nonexistent, at least for a short spell was a bright bunch of flowers, apparently courtesy of Sir Paul McCartney, no stranger to personal tragedy. He had sent the veteran disc jockey his best wishes written on a card accompanying the colourful blooms: 'Get well soon, you lovely man. Allan recalls looking at the flowers when Bob was first admitted and mused that maybe people didn't realize how critical things were, how grave Bob's condition really was. "I figured this was the end and was quite upset. We'd had our differences but we made a great double act." Ailing and increasingly infirm Wooler has been rushed into hospital after friends, worried that they couldn't contact him, called police to break into his flat off Lark Lane. They found him lying on the floor alone and helpless. He had been unwell for some time with a heart condition and diabetes Slumped in a bedside armchair, an ashen-faced Bob Wooler, his pallor like damp dough - his feet and lower legs swollen grotesquely by chronic water retention- looked up pathetically and pleaded in a quivering voice to his pal Allan: "I just want something to happen. I can't go on like this. I want to die.' All their old rivalries forgotten, and close to tears Allan said bitterly: "When you think of what Bob has contributed to Liverpool's culture and music industry it is appalling that he is suffering like this. Just left to fade away." A week or so later as Bob Wooler's coffin was gently carried into the ancient quadrangle of Liverpool Parish Church at the Pierhead, a few mourners, Allan amongst them, cocked their heads as what sounded like the faint refrains of Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band wafted in from over the Mersey. But it was just more than likely a quirk of the sea breeze. Yet the Walton born man whose main claim to fame was that he introduced the Beatles to the world via the Cavern, and more tellingly to Brian Epstein, would have publicly eschewed the formal religious funeral ceremony that was laid on for his farewell. Bob was a most diffident if terrifically erudite character and a passionate atheist. This time there were no warm words of condolence from Sir Paul McCartney or his Wirral based brother Mike. Bob would have smiled wryly and shrugged. There were over 500 mourners, though, crammed into the aisles and pews, some who'd travelled long distances to pay their respects: musicians, show business personalities, press and just plain pals. As his long time friend Billy Butler, the ebullient local radio broadcaster whom Bob took on as a Cavern dj in 1964 commented during the service: "This former little railway clerk had the amazing vision to see the potential of the Liverpool music scene. He was the true Father of Mersey Beat and we, his sons, will miss him." Allan sat with his head bowed, biting his lip. Then as the lilting harmonies of Billy Kinsley and Tony Crane, founders of the original Merseybeats whom Bob considered his very own, swept into a haunting rendition of the Everley Brother's evocative hit Let It Be Me - one of Bob's favourite tunes - emotions for some were too much, and the hankies fluttered. It was left to Spencer Leigh, who also presents the BBC Radio Merseyside show On The Beat, to lighten the tone with witty revelations from Bob's planned biography he was helping to write: The Best of Fellas, a project that only finally came to fruition after his death as Bob had consistently delayed it, never satisfied with the details or the tone. Spencer Leigh revealed that Bob's pet hate was reserved for the people who made up tales about their Beatles' connections. 'He called them The Deathwatch Beatles and liked to include Allan

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Williams, the Beatles first manager, in that band/ added Leigh, glancing Allan's way across the pews in a manner a few thought rather inappropriate for the occasion. And he revealed that Bob had warned in his usual pithy manner. 'I am the Ghost of Mersey Beat Past and will come back to haunt them. Sporting a forced grin but clearly overwrought at the loss of his jousting chum, Allan nevertheless took up the gauntlet in the crowded church and in a strident voice that echoed round the stone walls, retorted: "Yeh, well maybe so. And he's even managed to have a go at me from the grave, the old bastard. But I have the last laugh because in that bleeding coffin he's dressed in my favourite shirt and bow tie. He'd have been really pissed off if he knew. And I bet I don't get them back now." His ripe language might well have stunned the vicar, the Reverend Nicholas Frayling, now canon of Chichester - and Beryl Adams gave Allan a swift half-hidden, playful slap on the arm - but it was just the right tonic to lift the melancholy mood that had settled on the congregation as his words brought forth ripples of laughter and chuckles. How Wooler would have relished firing back a smart-alecky, barbed riposte. Instead, there was just a muted silence, the last throaty rumbles of suppressed chortles swallowed up by the canyons of stone. It was truly the end of an era for Allan. Yet as the years of the new millennium ground slowly on even more deep sadness was to befall him just a year later when Beryl Adams, his friend, lover and confidante for over a dozen years passed away after a savagely short illness that surprised everyone. When only two or three months before she fell ill with mysterious symptoms, the baffled doctors were inclined to conjecture that they might well incorporate elements of Creutzfeldt-Jakob Disease, the rare condition that kills about 120 people a year in Britain and is known colloquially as Mad Cow Disease. It was a tragedy that left Allan bereft. As her illness progressed rapidly, untreatable and unchecked Beryl had finally - but in a mind numbingly short time - been confined to the palliative care unit in Liverpool's Royal Hospital, where just over a year previously her former husband Bob Wooler had also died. She began to develop the symptoms - confusion, memory loss and speaking impairments - only in late January but according to medical experts the gestation period for the disease is considerable and it strikes without warning. It acts fast and there is no known cure at present. After several interminable weeks, her condition deteriorating almost by the hour, Beryl Adams died early Saturday afternoon of March 1st 2003. Her family and friends fervently hoped she'd been oblivious to her suffering, as had Allan. There was broached a hint that the reason might hark back to a spinal operation she had undergone some eighteen years ago. Then little was known of the fatal consequences or appearance of sporadic CJD, as it became known. Speculation suggests that there may well have been 'contaminated' instruments around during that operation. Who would have known the danger then? No one can be blamed. It was just another tragedy to befall Beryl, and Allan for that matter: the ultimate stroke of ill fortune that left him bereft. Every day Allan Williams had trekked by public transport to be by her side, just to talk comfortingly in her ear. "After a while she couldn't speak. But I know she knew I was there. That's all that mattered. Some days, though, I couldn't hack it. She was so helpless." Towards the end he tearfully admitted that he didn't know if she could hear him. He didn't know if she recognised him. He was distraught and a man cast adrift. All over that sad weekend as Allan Williams bravely struggled hold back the tears tributes were flowing to mark the unusual, if tragic, life of 66-year-old Beryl Adams. Barely able to contain his emotions Allan Williams called me on that fateful Saturday lunchtime to blurt out, voice cracking with anguish that Beryl had died five minutes earlier at 13.25pm. "She's gone. Beryl has just died," he cried, two short, piteous sentences that had unravelled his life again. And the phone went dead. The hospital had called him first. For weeks after Allan told everyone who would listen of his devastation at the loss of Beryl. "Oh, I know people will mutter that it was a turbulent relationship. Yes, it was. We rowed and squabbled constantly. But the years with her were truly the best of my life.

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"We always made up. And often after an argument, usually because of my behaviour, Beryl would call me and say: 'Allan, I've got a nice bottle of wine here. Come on round and we can share it.' "That's what it was like. And we had just enjoyed a marvellous holiday in Portugal just before Christmas. We were planning to do so much this year and onwards. It was so unfair. She was just getting to grips with her past and ready to tell her own story of that wild time with Epstein. I have lost a rock and a dear friend and companion." There is a weird synchronicity that seems to pervade the circle of people from the old Mersey Beat era and none more so peculiar than the astonishing triangular set up between Allan Williams, Bob Wooler and Beryl Adams, whose lives were intertwined like a creeping clematis plant - and became intimately so as the years progressed - yet without them knowing. Beryl had been married to Wooler for a few years - despite knowing he was gay - back in the 1960s and had remained his friend, and to an extent his confidante right up to his death. She had also been Brian Epstein's first secretary when he first took over the Beatles from Allan. However, she had given up what she called that frantic, roller-coaster life that was destroying her when she quit the job as he moved to London. In a bizarre contradiction of her need for a quieter orbit she had then gone to work in the Cavern for Ray McFall, remaining at the very epi-cen-tre of the Mersey Beat boom. Her life with Wooler was both tempestuous and tortured. After divorcing him she re-married and vanished into obscurity as a doctor's receptionist in the village of West Derby, where she had grown up a close neighbour and friend of Pete Best and his family. In what can only be considered strange circumstances, paradoxically her path never crossed Allan's when Liverpool was buzzing with the excitement of a fast changing Zeitgeist in the early 1960s. She was a keen clubber, a regular Cavernite and in her own words a 'good time gal'. She recalls popping into the Blue Angel now and then but never the Jacaranda; she was just that few important years older than the clientele, and the burgeoning young pop bands. Despite the common currents that coursed through their lives, Allan and Beryl simply didn't mix in the same social circles; perhaps because Allan actually didn't visit the Cavern and similar joints, being far too busy running his own clubs. Beryl would later say: 'I certainly didn't know him as a friend but, of course, knew he'd managed the Beatles as I was working for Brian Epstein at the time. Oddly I don't recall Brian really mentioning his name or ever seeing him in the NEMS office. Come to that, I never saw him in the Cavern either. But there was no denying he was a character on the scene. He was extremely charismatic but I can't remember anything significant about the night I was first introduced to him by Bob. It simply didn't register.' Years passed before Beryl was to be fatefully flung together with Williams because of their shared concern for Wooler's failing health. This was after he'd suffered a second heart attack in the early 1990s. He was very ill at the time - even under the watchful eye of a geriatric consultant as it was thought he wouldn't last that long - and living in a little flat in a scruffy, pot holed road called Pelham Grove off Lark Lane in south Liverpool. There was no one to look after him and Williams had called around to visit his erstwhile business partner and pal. "He had a heart attack some years before and when discharged from hospital had nowhere to go. I discussed it with my wife and he moved in with us in Grove Park, someone had to look after the poor sod. Ha, it was one of those stories of The Man Who Came To Dinner, he was still there three years later and I'd been thrown out, our marriage effectively over." Eventually Wooler was living alone when he fell poorly again. He pleaded with Williams to contact Beryl, as he wanted desperately to see her, as he assumed then for the last time. They hadn't met or even spoken for any length of time in almost fifteen years. Naturally, as ever there was a motive for Bob's wheezing plea for Beryl's company. After Wooler came out of hospital he had massive cardiac problems. His lower legs were particularly bad, swollen with water retention. By early 1993 Wooler was suffering greatly and remembered that Beryl worked for a doctor. He thought she could get him an introduction to a private cardiac consultant.

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Williams, canny as ever, called her at Wooler's instigation and explained that he knew patients could see a private consultant for one session and then after that go back to the National Health. It was possible that the consultant could probably get Bob back into hospital. She said: 'I was divorced from Peter, my second husband, by then and I was living in a flat over the doctor's surgery in West Derby. I rarely went out, apart from to the local Conservative club, a far cry from the all night sessions I had indulged in the sixties.' And so her life trundled on, until the evening that Allan Williams just happened to be going to a special revival memorial party at the Casbah -the club that Pete Best's mother Mona had established in the basement of her large Victorian home and where the Beatles, as the Quarrymen, had first performed and cavorted - even with Best - before fame beckoned. The party was only a few days after Allan had contacted Beryl with a request for her to visit Wooler. They had met at Wooler's flat and Williams, ever the ladies' man, admits that he was 'quite smitten' with Beryl. "She was very attractive and we seemed to hit it off right away, even in those circumstances." Beryl recalled that Allan just asked her outright if she wanted to go and she admits she did falter a bit. 'I was surprised to be honest. I wasn't sure if I wanted to get back into that maelstrom. He told me he and his friends were all meeting in the nearby Jolly Miller pub later that day. I gave it a few more moments thought. And I went. 'There I was that night in the bloody Casbah having a drink with Allan Williams and gabbing away about those early Beatles days. I did find him very attractive and interesting. I discovered his wife had thrown him out after finally confronting him over a thirty odd year affair with a woman called Jean McQueen, which had begun at the Blue Angel club.' It turns out that Williams had been on his own for about three years and Beryl, tutting, says that frankly by then he was a bit of a tat-bag. 'He'd let himself go a bit. He was grubby and unkempt. Ha, ha. People would stop us and say 'God you've done wonders for him, he's a different man, so smart and clean'. Bloody hell, I've had lots of laughs over that/ she says. 'Anyway within two years I was seeing Allan and everyone knew, including the neighbour - that I would be staying at his. Mind you, I was very conscientious and would be back at Heaton Road at the medical centre to start answering the surgery reception telephone phone calls by 7.00am. 'And I've never really got rid of him since," she fell about laughing. Coyly she agreed that she liked him enormously, had maybe even fallen in love with him and his roguish ways. She was, though, adamant that they wouldn't ever get married, even if Williams did ever get a divorce. "NO, most definitely no!' The truth is, of course, as Beryl knew full well, that Allan had never been divorced from his wife who was also called Beryl. Impishly he had tagged the two women in his life as Beryl Number One - his estranged wife - and Beryl Number Two, Ms Adams. Neither seemed to mind. In fact he still sees Beryl Number One on and off, they display the conviviality and ease of people who are familiar with each other's idiosyncrasies. Allan concurs with a grin that Beryl Number One has earned her spurs in this regard having put up with truckloads of his tomfoolery over the years. In her own right, she is a well-known personality throughout the theatre world. For decades she has provided lodgings and accommodation for actors and theatrical types visiting and working in Liverpool, many of who befriended her rascally husband, charmed by his twinkle and flair for life. When Allan took the Beatles to Hamburg on that epic first trip, it was Beryl Number One who sat alongside him in the van. She has been involved or a silent, bemused witness to all his capers. Today she lives comfortably in a rambling old Victorian house in a leafy cul-de-sac close to Sefton Park in Liverpool, while Allan fumbles around in a rented one-bedroom flat. He is as phlegmatic about his domestic situation as the rest of his zany life. "Well, we never saw the point of getting officially divorced. And Beryl Number One was always more wise with money than me. She didn't fritter her profits from a share in the Jacaranda and the Blue Angel on failed projects. She invested in property and looked after her assets. "And I think my two kids - Leah and Justin - have learned from her, because they are also very astute financially. It's just me who is the dunderhead."

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Indeed Leah now runs an award winning international hotel in Liverpool that has become a major attraction for foreign students and Beatles fans. Again, that synchronicity kicks in for she was once also briefly a Beatle guide in the city and now often invites her dad to talk to groups of guests about his time as the Beatles manager. "I think most of them are gob smacked when I am wheeled in," chuckles Allan. He is now also a proud granddad twice over thanks to Justin and his wife Dannie. For all his wayward antics Allan wears his sensitivity on his sleeve and is close to his family in more ways than his acquaintances appreciate. And so Allan and Beryl Number Two became well known as a couple both in his Liverpool haunts and at Beatles related events cross the UK, and abroad. Beryl by then was living in an attic apartment that she hated close to Princes Park and a saunter from Allan's own flat, which she described as a tip. Then circumstances changed when Allan was offered a nice new flat in yet another converted Victorian manse in Mannering Drive off Lark Lane, the growing 'in-scene' for Liverpool trendies. Beryl shifted in to live with him and stayed for five years until she complained that the daily routine of boozing was beginning to pale. She moved to live alone - yet in daily contact with Allan - in a self-contained apartment in a specially built block; a rather plush residential complex run by a housing association looked over by a warden. Allan harboured ambitions to move in as well but fate was to deal him yet another hammer blow. Usually full of beans and in rude health despite his heroic intake of booze and late night revelry, Allan suddenly found he was breathless and increasingly tired. A medical check up led to an angiogram and the diagnosis that he needed a heart by-pass. His arteries were clogged up. At 70 years of age and still rampaging around the world, he reckoned he'd escaped rather well up to then. Allan was first told he needed by-pass surgery more than a year before the operation but a long National Health waiting list meant he had to hang on, his breathing becoming increasingly laboured, although it certainly didn't seem to interfere that much with his madcap lifestyle. And despite his health problems he continued to prepare for taking part in the planned Beatles Festival in Liverpool that summer where he intended to talk - yet again - to thousands of absorbed fans. Allan was 71 when he went under the surgeon's scalpel for what is usually considered a routine operation these days but in his life nothing is simple and complications set in. He was kept in intensive care for fourteen days. He almost died twice, he thinks, but the nursing staff rallied him round. Desperately worried Beryl joined his family and friends in keeping a vigil at the hospital as Allan struggled with a lung infection that could so easily have extinguished his life. His condition was so serious that he didn't regain consciousness for over a week. Later he was to say that he had an out of body experience, that he'd seen what could have been an angel at the foot of the bed. "But it might have also been a devil." That attitude is typical of the irrepressible irreverence that Allan Williams has bestowed on every one of his misfortunes. Beryl was worried witless despite protestations that Williams was the bane of her life: 'Although the doctors considered the heart operation a success, Allan developed a problem with his breathing and lungs and had to undergo a tracheotomy. I was in a terrible state.' Thankfully, Williams pulled through and was finally moved from intensive care where he had indeed almost died in the middle of one night, to a general surgical ward. There he quickly was back in banter mood with the nursing staff, joshing and cracking jokes even though in considerable pain. He says he is indebted to their professionalism and skill but the reality is within a couple of weeks he was back on the red wine with a vengeance and within a month or so was tippling vodka like lemonade. Beryl thinks he likes to dice with death. 'But I know he was terrified of dying and having that operation, so maybe it's just stupidity. Pale, weak and recovering after the difficult quadruple by-pass turned nasty Allan had confided to Beryl - and naturally, the world in a newspaper article, ever the showman that he is - how the

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surgery has been the most frightening experience of his life and that he feared he might die. He was still being fed intravenously when describing the experience as a huge nightmare but then brightened up and told how he had been overwhelmed by the flood of well wishers who have contacted his hospital ward from all over Britain and the world. Yet he was convinced that a telephone call from Mike McCartney was a hoax. "I sort of fell out with the Beatles as everyone knows, and I haven't spoken to Paul for a while, so I didn't really think it was true," he said from a bedside chair in Broad Green hospital's cardio thoracic centre as Beryl sat quietly next to him. But Mike McCartney later confirmed that he had indeed made that mercy call adding: "We go back a long, long way and have so many shared memories. It was only good manners to check on Allan's condition. We've been through thick and thin and I know Our Kid (as McCartney refers to his brother Paul) will also wish him a speedy recovery. Such is Allan's reputation as a hell raiser that Beryl and other friends were also forced to furiously deny false media reports that claimed he was still hitting the bottle hard just days before the life saving operation. It was true that as Allan was due to have the surgery after months of agonized waiting and often in severe pain, a few hours before he was admitted to undergo the operation at Liverpool's Broad Green hospital, it was unexpectedly postponed, leaving him devastated at the delay. The next day newspapers reported that he'd gone on a day long drunken binge, staggering around Mathew Street and insulting everyone in sight. Beryl angrily hit out at the press reports as she sat by his bedside every day watching as the man who had looked to outlive all of the Beatles and the Mersey Beat set in a metaphorical two-fingered salute - battled to recover. 'Doctors were pleased with the heart operation but he had developed a problem with his breathing and lungs which meant he was given a tracheotomy/ explained Beryl. 'For weeks before Allan went into hospital he was a bit apprehensive but had been reassured it was basically a simple procedure. He was very much aware that he had to be fit to cope with the stress of it and he certainly did not carry on drinking as was reported. The press story, compiled by a local Merseyside news agency, told that despite dire warning from his doctors Williams refused to abandon his drinking. The report went on: 'He told us recently, with a glass of malt whisky in his hand: "If I could not have a glass of Scotch, life wouldn't be worth living." And the truth again is that it was just the sort of waggish comment familiar to those who are on the receiving end of Allan's loopy sense of humour. Yet Beryl scoffed angrily at the quote commenting: 'As far as we know no one had spoken to Allan about this operation and he'd been unconscious for over a week. More the point he has always hated whisky. I have never seen him even take a sip of it. Allan recovered and simply stepped back into his old lifestyle, to the amazement of his friends. Only weeks before her own health began to deteriorate Beryl had laughed and joked about her life with Allan. Sure, we've had our rows but I can't get rid of him and I've done my best/ she laughed. 'Every time I say bugger off he says pleadingly, 'You don't really mean that do you?'...and I screech back, 'What, you don't think I mean it...GO!' But dammit, he never does. Beryl found it amusingly ironic how the 'full circle' approach to life has unfolded since she met Williams again. Suddenly she was catapulted back into the aura of the Beatles after years in the wilderness. Allan was as usual cheekily flogging off his stories and bits and pieces of memorabilia without shame or regret. 'Since we became a couple I've been to lots of Beatles conventions with him, in Canada especially as well as all over Europe and America and of course Liverpool. Beryl snorts in derision but remarks that the good times with Williams outweighed the bad times. "He is a character and isn't bitter about what's happened to him. 'Out of all of them he's the one whose come out of it okay, and as he says he's still alive. He takes all the knocks with a pinch of salt and is a bit of a rumbustious character.

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'Of course he's not rich the way he bloody well should've been yet essentially he's managed to live off the back of that short Beatles relationship. Chrissakes, all the others are so intense about it. Allan just takes the falls and comes bouncing back. 'When I first took up with Allan I do think that Bob Wooler was really very jealous even though we'd been parted for years. Oh yes. I remember his first reaction was shock and he couldn't get over it. It really struck a chord that I was involved with his one time business partner." 'I knew that they had even set up a company together in the early 1980s - WW Enterprises - to soft sell their memories and stories. Over the years they developed into a delightful bickering double act - the epitome of the Odd Couple - at similar conventions worldwide. Their love-hate relationship was a standing joke. 'Robert nailed me one day in Lark Lane and said he was the last to know that I had fallen for Allan. How come everyone knew about you and that swine but me? 'He found out when we went to the Beatles Convention in Canada and Allan had put me down as Mrs Beryl Wooler. That really pissed him off. Both of them factors. He went mad about that. Actually, I've still got a nametag with Mrs Wooler emblazoned on it. 'Frequently when I bumped into him he would make sarcastic comments. And yet he'd seen us together an awful lot but hadn't put 'two and two' together even though it was well known. I suppose he was upset that Allan and I had developed a rapport, and that knowing how useless Allan is at looking after himself he had got me to do it. 'And Robert was very lonely He had no one, not even a boyfriend. But then he never did have a live in boyfriend; he always lived on his own after me. It was very sad/ commented Beryl. A throng of maybe 200 mourners - including former Beatle Pete Best and his brother Roag - stood heads bowed as Beryl Adam's cortege hove into view. Slowly it swung through the giant black and gold wrought iron gates towards the ancient church of St Mary the Virgin that clings to the edge of Lord Derby's vast estates, a few miles to the east of Liverpool city centre. A keen northeast wind tingled faces, yet the first early pink blossoms of the year had seemingly burst forth overnight and dotted the trees with a pretty bloom around the stone-clad square at the entrance to the church in the village where Beryl had been born and raised. Five, long, sleek jet-black limousines swished by in convoy with Beryl's coffin in the lead while behind the second car held her sister Dot, twin brother Ken, her second husband Peter Mullins and son Simon. Alongside them sat her lover and friend for the last twelve years Allan Williams, who was red-eyed with grief. Allan is -as you might expect - carrying on, still spinning his yarns that Beryl so loved, despite her joking with him that she didn't believe most of it. But the truth is she did you see. She relished every anecdote and witty aside about the Beatles she also knew; told so well and with great humour and passion by the man she loved. She had actually found a sort of peace with Allan.

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7- letting rip in Russia and Georgia as Allan's'new' Beatles-Blitz plan collapses into a shambles More than a quarter of a century after Allan managed and lost the Beatles he got the chance to wipe the egg off his face, and even wallow in possible sang-froid, sticking two fingers up to his critics. He took an exciting new band under his wing. Maybe, he mused, there was the opportunity to shape their futures properly and even turn them into a global commodity like the Fab Four. He'd been smitten by this 'youngish' four-piece outfit called Blitz from Georgia in the Soviet Union. Overawed at meeting the man who had got the Beatles on the move, they - and their agents - had pleaded with him to be their manager. They were causing a storm of interest across Eastern Europe with their tribute show 'Remembrance of the Beatles'. Surprisingly, it seemed to Allan, for a Soviet era band they could rattle through two hours of Lennon and McCartney material without a pause, and with great panache and style. The band had shot to fame after walking off with the top prize at the Beatle Mania concert in the Ukraine early in 1989, although they were hardly an overnight sensation. First formed in 1980 deep behind an austere Iron Curtain still in thrall to communism it wasn't until towards the end of that decade they'd began to make their name. After their spring success of 1989 they then went on to pick up the best rock group title at the USSR-Georgian Rock Festival 'Tbilisi 89'. Their performance of English (sic), Russian and Georgian rock music wowed the specially selected Soviet Union style jury. Later that year they were to top the bill at the Rock Peace Festival in Poland, another groundbreaking event in Eastern Europe. They were clearly going places and fast. Yet their first and only performance in the western world was to be in the August - again of that same year - when they were invited to play at the prestigious Beatles convention in Liverpool, thanks to Allan's entreaties to organiser Bill Heckle. He took Allan at his word that they had that special ingredient for him to give them a whirl. After a great year in Eastern Europe - despite the havoc in their own country - Blitz were overjoyed to be on their way to Liverpool, something they had only dreamed about. The four - drummer and English speaking spokesman Ben Oslpov, Valery Ambartzumian, Valery Kocharov and Zaza Sakhamberdize, names that don't exactly roll off the tongue like John, Paul, George and Ringo as Allan is the first to concede - were all in their late twenties and early thirties. Although their own material was highly regarded it was their Beatles acts that resulted in ripples of excitement. Despite the battalions of Beatles look alike and tribute bands they were considered to be one of the best groups at the convention and won the hearts of the fans assembled in the city from all over the world to pay homage to the Beatles. Allan recalls that they nearly brought down the ceiling in the famous Adelphi Hotel in Liverpool where the Beatles Convention is usually staged - when they launched into Back in the USSR, a song written by Paul McCartney, which had actually been influenced to some extent by Californian 'Beach Boy' Mike Love when they met in India at the Maharishi's ashram in the spring on 1968. They even managed to fit in a gig at the Cavern Club and with Allan's encouragement - he was keen to sign a recording deal by then - they made a demo tape at a studio in Liverpool's Lark Lane. Later they were also treated to a civic reception by Liverpool city council. 'To me, this looked like the start of something big at last," remarks Allan ruefully. "I thought it was very interesting that they were from Tblisi - a great novelty value after all. I didn't think twice about taking on the manager's job of a group for the first time since the Beatles. And for that matter the first major rock outfit to come out of the USSR.

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"This time I was determined not to repeat my earlier mistake and wouldn't let them out of my sight," comments Allan who was then running his firm called Nostalgia Promotions - a joint effort with Bob Wooler -alongside his own AW Promotions outfit. "I'd draw up a watertight contract and using all my skills and wiles, promote them worldwide. I reckoned I had finally cracked it. I was as high as a kite. "But it was a total disaster. The whole episode turned into a complete shambles. I eventually had to get shut of them, just like the Beatles." Yet Allan should have known better as the whole episode started off as a wacky escapade. "Well, I'd met these guys, who I was half convinced at the time were Russian Mafia, a year earlier when I was in Moscow as guest of honour at the first ever Beatles festival in the Soviet Union. "They told me about Blitz. They suggested I should manage the band. Apparently their English name was Beatles Club. Truth is, I wasn't that disinterested either. I still had a yen for the music business. "So at their behest I did go off and see Blitz at a gig in Moscow and thought they were great. I knew they could do well. They seemed to have the magic chemistry that the Beatles had. In fact, I thought they were as good, if not better, than John, Paul, George and Ringo when I first heard them, and certainly better than the lads in their earliest days." "But I wondered who and what this motley bunch of 'businessmen' was all about. They were very desperately keen for me to do this. Smiling, they claimed they were part of the Georgian Peace Committee. The Georgian band Blitz - Allan hoped they would become his Ha. Some peace committee, they were all muscled and looked like proper bloody villains. Their minders were hunched like gorillas and built like brick shit-houses. "After that initial involvement when the Peace Committee became serious about me managing Blitz I explained that I would naturally need to meet them properly. And so I was invited to Georgia later that year for a meeting to sort out contracts. " What Allan didn't grasp at first was the volatile nature of the political situation in Georgia, which was made up of several 'autonomous republics', and a smaller region, that were demanding secession, provoking violent inter-ethnic clashes. A largely mountainous country sandwiched between the Caspian and the Baltic seas, Georgians in general wanted to quit the Soviet empire. There had been a history of uprisings back to 1921 and in January 1991 Georgia did declare independence and later that year severed all links with the USSR in the wake of the failed anti-Gorbachev coup. There were ructions all over the country. Allan was oblivious to this. "For a treat I decided to take my son Justin with me. I think he still remembers every second, because it was so memorable, and on several layers. We had a marvellous time, the food was superb and I fell in love with the wine. I was in seventh heaven. "You see, from my perspective when I first saw the band in Georgia they were obviously heading for the big time and I thought I could get a slice of this action/' says Allan. "And for all the 'big bruiser' appearance the Peace Committee seemed a nice enough bunch, the hospitality was generous and after I was introduced to Blitz in Moscow they had got down on their knees and pleaded with me to handle them. "That's why without any hesitation I then invited them to Liverpool that summer and even persuaded Bill Heckle to pay for them to come over and perform at the convention." The Peace Committee also helped sponsor Blitz's first visit to Liverpool, recalls Allan especially in securing visas. And in the UK the McDonald's hamburger chain had also chipped in along with a local British brewery. "They even had their own minder in the form of the English language Soviet Weekly's north west of England correspondent. Although I suspect he was there to keep a close eye on them in case they defected. "As my son and I headed off to Russia in the winter of 1989 I thought it would be a great wheeze. What I didn't know was that the Peace Committee also wanted me to manage a troupe of very risque dancers who they were trying to smuggle out of the country illegally. Christ, if I'd guessed at

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half of it I would have smelled a prison cell in the offing. But I was innocent and naive and thought what the hell, this could be a lotta fun." Allan and his son Justin - then only fifteen - flew into Moscow airport only to discover that the band - and of course the gangsters, or rather the agents provocateurs - were actually from Georgia, a near neighbour of Russia and a part of the crumbling Soviet Union. Georgia enjoyed a lively reputation and tradition for corruption and spawning criminals. The fun was about to start in earnest and Moscow airport was covered in a mantle of snow as an unsuspecting Allan and Justin arrived. From a distance the scene looked tranquil and very attractive in the winter setting, and quite normal. "But we soon found out that it wasn't just like an ordinary airport. We are talking here of Wild West territory. This was the bloody frontier to me. I wouldn't believe it to this day except that Justin had his camera and every now and then I can remind myself of the chaos by looking at the pictures he took, although that was also a close shave. "This airport was like the bleeding battle zone after a football derby game is over. Aircraft were landing apparently haphazardly and without any obvious form of direction. And people were wandering all over the bloody tarmac with their suitcases, hordes of them scattered around the landing field, milling about. It was mind-boggling. "I turned to Justin and said: 'I don't believe this you've gotta get a photo of this.' "There weren't any airport buses to take anyone anywhere, just people walking about - or slippin' n sliding on the ice - with their bags. Anyway Justin takes this picture and I still fall about laughing about what happened next. "Out of nowhere from this steaming, stumbling crowd lurches this big fat woman in an ill fitting uniform who comes across and without so much as a by-your leave, smacks him around the back of the head and shouts: "No photographs!" "She didn't even know who he was, just landed this stonking big clout across his head. The lad was more surprised than hurt. I was in bulk laughing." They were quickly whisked onto a plane heading for Tblisi, the capital of the soon to be rebel state. "I must admit I was baffled as I glanced around. There were only five people: me and Justin and this guy from the Georgian Peace Committee - who apparently had something to do with the group - and two others. "I'm wondering why there are so few people on board this jetliner when suddenly all hell lets loose and the passenger door is flung open, forcing a freezing blast of air inside. We looked on goggleeyed. "All these crazy looking guys - mad men I reckoned - from Moscow were clambering up the mobile steps through the entrance, dragging in gigantic fridges and television sets. No one stopped them or even blinked an eye. On they charged, laden down with all this gear. We sat there timidly as this bunch of yahoos simply tore out the seats and stacked fridges and cookers and all sorts of other electrical gear in the seat next to them. I mean, these were massive fridge fucking freezers for Christ's sake, inside the plane where the passengers sit. "As I glanced around I did feel a stab of fear in the meantime as bits of the plane were falling off into the aisles as these lads bashed the gear around. I was worried they might knock a hole in the fuselage. "Let's face facts, before you board an aircraft in Britain - or most other places in the world as I recall - you usually weigh things, suitcases and the like to make sure the plane isn't overloaded. Oh no, certainly not in Russia. That's obviously for cissies. Stuff that. I'm still amazed. "Anyway we settle in for this four-hour flight and all these bloody hoodlums are being served platters of steaming goulash and hurling vodkas down their necks. "This made me feel a bit peckish and I reckoned Justin needed food as well. I turned to the Georgian guy and asked if we were getting anything to eat. He shrugged and waved his arms about, 'Mr Allan, no problem we have food for you/ But nothing happened and after an hour or so I gave up wondering and told Justin we'd have a slap up feed when got to the hotel. "As the overhead light comes on to announce that we would soon be landing - this was obvious to me as the bleeding plane

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was coming down fast -1 couldn't believe what I was seeing. My eyes were almost popping out. "We'd actually almost landed when I spy this stewardess girl - all bright eyed and luminous purple lipstick - swaying down the aisle. She stops and beaming at us, hands down two plates brimming with goulash. I was fit to bust with laughing. "There was none of this 'please fasten your seat and safety belts malarkey. Oh no, once the warning red light on, up comes the grub. Naturally. "That was only the start of our adventures. We shuffled through this dismal shed of an arrivals lounge and we're directed to a truck. I stole a glance at Justin but I think he was enjoying himself too much to wonder or worry about this aspect of the journey. "I figured we would head off into town to an office but after a while it dawned on me that we were heading into the, erm, mountains. I was feeling a bit apprehensive as we thundered through the countryside into the back of bleeding beyond. Our final destination was a set of caves where the 'lads' hung out. I was stunned. "They did find my apprehension amusing and reassured me that we were staying and sleeping in a hotel in town. This was their headquarters. Ah, that's okay then, I thought, as we shuffled into the main cave. It was all lit up and done out for proper living and working. Amazing. "And I can't deny that we were treated on the high hog, most regally. Georgia was the food belt of the Soviet Union and their wine is like nectar. I merely casually remarked after a couple of slurps that it was a lovely wine and the next bleeding day there was a crate of red wine in our hotel suite. I even brought a crate home with me. Don't ask." In the eyes of the Georgian gangsters Allan was an international celebrity in his own right and a fabulous musical promoter. Was he not the very man who had managed the Beatles? Of course he was. And now they wanted him to look after their boys, Blitz. He would turn them into successful and very rich stars. And they would reap the rewards as well. It all made perfect sense. "They didn't make any pretence about what they wanted. No siree. They were right up front and we were their guests in this somewhat unusual office cave buried in the mountains. It didn't take a genius to work out what the game plan was. "I was smiling in a fixed fashion as though rigor mortis had set in. They smiled coldly back as we shared the lovely wine when unexpectedly Justin almost made me choke. I thought my days were numbered. "Remember he was only a teenager and it must have all seemed very exotic to him. Crikey, dad, he blurted out without warning, This is just like the Russian Mafia'. "I grimaced, and you could have heard a pin drop, you know. You see they hate the Russians and I don't suppose they were too chuffed at being regarded as bandidos, either. "Of course, I had quickly grasped that they wanted me to manage this Blitz band because they wanted to get their hands on UK and US hard currency and the like. C'est la vie, I thought. No skin off my bleeding nose. "And I didn't fancy ending up weighed down with a lump of concrete in a bloody Georgian rock pool either." Ah, but that wasn't the whole of it, not by a long chalk as Allan was to find out. The Tads' had other bright ideas. 'Hey, Mr Alan we also have this very famous group of Georgian dancers. They are very beautiful women. We want you to manage them as well.' The Peace Committee was beaming to a man at Allan. This came out of nowhere and he blanched. "I wasn't really interested in looking after a bloody bunch of prancing women. But they insisted that they were brilliant and then ordered them to put on a show for us; a demonstration by what they called 'these very graceful' dancers. "Personally, I would say they were also very near the knuckle. And they were no bleeding spring chickens either even if they could leap six feet in the air. I think dancing was something they should've given up long ago. "They were more like ageing striptease artistes and that made me laugh because I'd once had the Beatles backing a strip act in Liverpool. "I had this club with my pal Lord Woodbine - remember him - and everyone thought he owned the

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club. Well, I can now admit that I had a half share. So, basically here I was back to square one: a new Beatles-like band and a gang of voluptuous strippers. I grimaced inwardly, nervously thinking that life can play cruel jokes sometimes. "After the performance, which was rather entertaining in its own quirky way, I was quietly, ahem, admiring the sharpness of the ceremonial sword Fd been given as a gift by the 'boys'. The leader of the 'Peace Committee' explained that the troupe couldn't get out of the USSR - to perform naturally - as the government wouldn't allow anyone over the age of forty out of the country. It was all very tiresome', Mr Allan, they sighed. "I nodded sympathetically. And here was the catch. They couldn't get out of Russia or the USSR unless they had a foreign promoter. "The penny clanged to the floor. In fact it hit me hard on the side of the head like an iron fucking girder. 'You, Mr Allan, will be our foreign promoter.' They had it all sussed out. "I smirked and gulped foolishly but was secretly wondering how the hell I was going to get myself and Justin - out of this scrape. Ha, I giggled inwardly again, another tale for the scrapbook. My wife Beryl would slaughter me. "They leaned across and said in pleading voices loaded with barely concealed menace, 'Mr Allan, please consider this very carefully. "Ha, ha. I wanted to run away there and then. Then fate dipped in and gave me a hand. Unusually it was rather in my favour for a change. As we were about to be escorted back to the hotel for our last night, I was pulled to one side by the leader, a swarthy guy with a very severe squint and a glint that made him look like Zorro without the mask. I reckoned I was about to be given my instructions. "Instead he declared that it was impossible for us to return home the next morning. 'Out of the question, Mr Allan/ he growled like a grizzly. "Startled, I asked why, as Justin looked up at me his brow puckered with concern. Surely we weren't going to be held captive. Kidnapped in the remote Georgian wilderness. And I didn't think that anyone knew where we were. My bloody mind was whirring and working overtime. 'Oh, the Russians have just bombed our oil refinery and we have no petrol or fuel for our planes.' He is laughing hysterically as he relates this. "Here we were, we'd be stuck in Georgia probably for Christmas just as another bleeding revolution was about to explode in the USSR. I couldn't believe my bad luck, again." As it turns out the Russians did invade some weeks later as Georgia was asserting its independence. The army came in and massacred the Georgians; many were killed and murdered brutally, some with axes and shovels. "Jesus Christ, I thought. This isn't funny at all, especially as our hosts were expecting another bombing raid the next day and it was probably going to be the bloody airfield, our only means of escape. "However, the authorities in Moscow knew where we were all the time. I am pretty certain they didn't fancy an international incident. You know, former manager of the famous Beatles and his son trapped in war torn Georgia, that sort of thing. "And they probably thought I had influence as well because I had been seen all over Russian national television the year before and was feted in the press. Sure, I was a pukka celebrity in Russia. "Miraculously within an hour or so a plane had been found for us. I was so relieved. We fled Georgia in the nick of time because we heard on the radio that Russian Migs were already blasting the countryside to bits. "We sure left in a hurry on that plane heading for Moscow, about four of us only, on what I reckoned was the last civilian aircraft out of Georgia before all hell really broke loose in the early weeks of 1990. "But I'd made a deal with the Peace Committee and although I had no intention of promoting the bleeding dancers, I was keen to take on Blitz. How was I to know it would all go pear shaped; yet another disaster in my life." The deal, though, certainly had all the promise of making him a rouble millionaire as the Orwelliansounding Georgian Peace Committee that was also keen to publish a Russian language version of

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Allan's first book. And they wanted to negotiate through Allan some way of releasing the Star Club tapes throughout the Soviet Union. "Sure it was a great time and I was even taken onto the committee chief's yacht on the Black Sea for a spot of sunbathing. It struck me rather forcibly that Justin was largely correct; these lads were more along the lines of the Mafia than the CND." Allan had also impressed his hosts when they asked him to talk to a bunch of students about the Beatles. He walked into a school hall and found himself face to face with an expectant crowd of 1200. Unfazed, Allan took it all in his stride as he did when enjoying a leisurely dinner with his interpreter. "Across the room someone stood up and proposed a toast to John Lennon. I had forgotten it was the anniversary of his death. The next thing a small party came across to our table and handed me nine bunches of carnations - one for every year since John had been killed. It was very moving and confirmed to me how important the Beatles music was in the USSR." The star maker returned home to Britain full of Glasnost spirit but sporting a broken arm. That is another story, though.

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8- Allan tells Blitz to 'f**k off, just like the Fab Four, but 'at least they could f**king play' ...and gives the Russians a run for their roubles while painting Moscow red A year after wowing audiences in Liverpool Blitz was on their way back for the Merseybeatle 1990 convention. That was when it all started to go haywire. "I was quite excited when I set off to meet them at the airport but more than a bit surprised when I spied ten of them were huddled before me in the arrivals lounge. Hello, guys, I said cheerily. Who are these people with you? "It took me a few moments to recover my composure when I discovered that one of the hanger's on was the granddaughter of Eduard Shevardnadze who was soon to become the Georgian head of state. "She knew the band well and had just got married and decided this Liverpool trip could be her honeymoon. And all expenses paid. She'd also brought a gaggle of her mates. "I understood that this is their way. After all, I'd been treated like royalty when I was in Georgia and Russia, if you can use that term about a communist country. But I had only expected the four boys in the band, not an entourage. "I was well and truly lumbered here. In a way these hangers on were fairly important - or so I thought - and I had to look after them; top political family and all that crap. "We'd made arrangements for them to stay in student accommodation off Myrtle Street in Liverpool, as it was the summer holidays. I had to increase the number of rooms to fit them all in. "Of course they arrived with no money. Naturally I felt obliged to repay the hospitality that had been dished up to me in their home country. Well, I should have known. They drank vodka like there was a world shortage due in a couple of hours. "And of course in Britain vodka was quite expensive compared to Georgia. They just sat there - all bleeding ten of them - knocking back vodka, vodka and even more vodka. Each round for me was about ten quid (US$15). "In the end I had to explain to them, 'Hey guys look this is costing me my life's savings. It's only coppers for a bottle in your country, here it's a king's ransom'. I presumed they knew what I meant but it didn't stop them drinking for the USSR. "And of course as they didn't have a bean between them, I had to fill the fridge with food for them or they'd have starved and there would probably have been a diplomatic incident. I was on the horns of a right bleeding dilemma. "There was also the rather tiresome matter of their playing abilities. In fact they weren't that good at all. I had been misled, maybe by my own keenness to lay old ghosts, as well. "But I didn't have time to ponder that trifle very much, as every time I turned round and went to see them they were there with hands out or whining for something. During the first week all I was hearing was the endless refrain, 'Hey, Mr Allan. I want. We want. Can we have?' "I was getting really cheesed off with this and then I discovered that they were doing deals behind my back with other promoters as well. That really got my gander up. "Next thing I hear is that they'd made plans to fly off to Germany, they'd done a deal with someone they'd met at the convention. I was blazing. I stormed along to the students flats and shouted, 'I'm paying for you, feeding you, getting you all the promotion and now you are flying off. They didn't even look crestfallen. "So I said, 'Listen lads I want to change your name'. And they said, 'Oh, what's that?' I replied, 'Every time I see you it's not how are you Allan.. .it's just Mr Allan 'I want. I want. I want.' So I'm renaming the group 'I Fucking Want'.

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'And do you know what I want? I want you all to fuck off back to Tbilisi because I never want to see you again. Do you get the message? Goodbye. Forever'. "I'd effectively been trying to promote them for three months before they came- even to organising a television appearance in Tokyo - but after they'd only been in Liverpool about a week I was sick to death of them. They had played at the convention but the novelty had gone off. "And I had changed my mind about their musical abilities. They weren't that good. "It had also struck me that without so much as a by your leave they had changed the band members as two had left. Bloody hell I mused, that's half the band. I wasn't having any of this and knew that I had to get shut of them pretty bloody pronto. "You have to chuckle because it really was shades of the Beatles again when I told them to clear off and told Epstein not to have anything to do with them. "The difference being that - and here I had to be honest with myself -Blitz were never, ever gonna make it big. After all my blagging I knew that they weren't gonna make it, not even as a tribute Beatles band. And I wanted to use something a bit sharper than a barge pole to push them out of my life," he roars with laughter, alluding to his now famous quip to Brian Epstein. "Well, blow me down but next year they were back in town again and being managed by another Liverpool guy, an unknown to me. And they were doing all these little venues with audiences of about ten. This guy -can't remember his name now - came to meet me and nervously apologised saying:' I hope you don't think I've pinched them off you.' "I laughed like a drain and said, Nah, I feel so sorry for you. He looked startled and kept repeating that they were okay. Yeh, I thought, so did I at first, you poor sap. I often wonder where they are now, as I haven't heard from them in years. For years Russian Beatle fans - and those across the former Soviet Union come to that - regarded Allan Williams as a hero. He was to trip back and forth on his mission to 'spill the Beatles beans'. Decades after the Beatles split there was massive Soviet interest in the band. In the early 1990s there was even talk of bringing the successful Liverpool Beatles convention to Moscow where the organisers predicted it could attract maybe 100,000. To all intents and purposes Communism was fizzling out and the Soviet Union rent asunder when young people starved of western music for generations heard on the grapevine about plans to stage a jamboree to celebrate Beatles music. Many were agog, as they had only listened to Western music on secret wireless broadcasts or on bootleg records. It was be held in the old Leningrad, the ancient 300 year old town on the Volga some 400 miles north of Moscow, that in the October of 1991 - in a grand fanfare -, changed its name back to the historical St Petersburg. And bizarrely these kids were mad as hatters to hear Allan's offbeat tales. News of his exploits had even filtered through the Iron Curtain. Little did they know what was to be hurled their way. In the late 1980s, though, the first trek into the uncharted waters of Russia for Allan was to become the buzz and gossip of the burgeoning Beatles fan network and the stuff of folklore, as you might expect. But, of course, the way it happened is once again brimful of comedy, black farce and improbability. "Frankly I hadn't heard of Beatles fans in bleeding Russia but I always keep an open mind on these matters, and an open palm," laughs Allan. "You see I had this pal in Liverpool who owned a Russian restaurant and bar who hinted that he might have been on the run from the Soviet officials in Leningrad. I got the drift that maybe the secret police were gunning for him. It seemed fair enough to me. Why not? As far as I knew the Russians were all crazy bastards. And I was soon to find out first hand just how crazy. "For a while I used to go to the Russian restaurant in Liverpool regularly but hadn't seen them for some time and I assumed they'd gone back to Russia, and had maybe been killed. "Then out of nowhere Sergei and Tanya arrived back in Liverpool and without fuss or bother had opened another bar. I was soon once again in their company zapping back the vodka. It was in their pleasant club that we plotted my first invasion of Moscow and Leningrad," laughed Allan. In fact far from being a gangster on the run, or hiding from the police Sergei Kotcherine is now a

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respected restaurateur in Liverpool, even esteemed food writers on the Sunday Times and the Independent newspapers have raved about the restaurant's grub and ambience. Today - called St Petersburg after Sergei's hometown - it is located in a lovely old Victorian building in York Street and boasts that it is the only authentic Russian restaurant in Britain. It would seem that this brazenly bold claim is supported by the place's unrivalled selection of 12 different types of blini, excellent borsch and chi-naxi - a lamb dish cooked in a traditional Russian earthenware pot - and, of course, its vodka. Only the 5 price tag for a bottle of water rattled the Sunday Times critic. "As we would sink bottles of vodka - and I've always been a fan of vodka - Sergei and me would often talk about putting on a show of Beatles music in Russia. I didn't think anything would come of it; it was just drunken chitchat. "Then one afternoon fate took a hand as I was downing a couple of drinks in the Lennon Bar, a bit of a low down, sleazy joint in Mathew Street, naturally after hours. There I met - well almost fell over - this lunatic Russian, a guy called Kolya Vason. "In fact he reminded me of Rasputin and had this long, unkempt beard. He could barely speak English and through the bloody pidgin mumbo jumbo I gathered he'd won some pop music contest or other on Russia television and the prize was a trip to Liverpool, home of the Beatles. "Christ, his breath stank of booze and even I was repelled but from what he told me the Beatles were big back in the USSR. I thought this was very funny, considering the old song. Of course, I reckoned he was off his head. Why would the Beatles be big in Russia? The bloody place and its people had been fenced in behind barbed wire and machine guns for years. "Well, we were getting stuck into this illegal stay-back afternoon drinking session and Rasputin was becoming more unintelligible. I'm always up for a laugh so I called Sergei to come and translate what Kolya was wittering on about. "They hit it off like the proverbial house on fire. And they were banging away in Russian for hours. I was getting very bloody bored. But suddenly Sergei shouts to me, 'Allan we are going to put on a Beatles convention in Leningrad'. "Yeh, yeh. Yeh. I reckoned they were both so pissed that sense had gone down the drain. But they began enthusiastically toasting each other and so I shrugged, grabbed the bottle to join in and soon we were all roaring about what a success it was going to be." Allan zipped off to Russia accompanied by Kolya Vason, who was also it turned out a Beatles fan club organiser and Allan insists is 'big in the music world' back on his home territory. "Well, nothing ventured, I thought, the lad needs a push. And I'm just the man for that." In the party was a bunch of Liverpool musicians, a group Allan knew quite well, along with a fellow Scouse pal. Inadvertently he was nearly the cause of Allan's murder because of a tricky misunderstanding with the cuckolded husband of a translator. They arrived in Moscow and quickly transferred to the Midnight Express to Leningrad, a rattling, snorting train pulled by a steam engine. It was as though they'd stepped back into a time capsule but it was shaping up to be a corker of an adventure. "We didn't sleep at all on that train. There was this rather fierce looking woman in charge of our sleeping compartment, which held six, men and women all thrown in together. There was no way we were going to get our heads down so we bribed the woman in charge and she turned up with bottles of champagne and vodka. "We partied all night long with the Russians sharing the compartment joining in with gusto. We sang our heads off and that train really did rock. What a thrash. There we were in the middle of the night heading for the first ever Beatles convention behind the Iron Curtain just as Perestroika was being introduced. The country was buzzing and manic. It was fabulous. "As we rumbled towards Leningrad I kept humming the Beatles Back in the USSR song, barely believing this was happening. The Beatles music had been banned for years in Russia but was known to everyone Fd met so far. How come? I was truly baffled. "I thought it would be a piss poor affair, maybe 250 people but at least Fd get a drink or two out of it. I was staggered to find more than 10,000 Beatles fans had gathered for this event. Bloody hell, I

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said to my mate from Liverpool, 'Where have all these people come from?' "It seems they had all listened secretly to the BBC World Service for years and picked up all the songs from that. They even had secret fan clubs forGawd's sakes. Hidden meeting places even in Moscow where they would all get together underground and play Beatles stuff. Once again I was gob smacked. "We spent two days in Moscow on our way home and I found out about this big fan club. One day this girl who ran the club took me to where they had all gone in the days when it was forbidden to listen to capitalist music. We trawled through the dreary streets and she just darts into a derelict building shouting for me to follow. "I stumbled over the bricks and rubble through to the back of this wrecked house. I couldn't believe my eyes yet again. There was a sort of hidden square where all the walls were sprayed with graffiti saying things like, 'We Love You John Lennon', 'The Beatles Are Forever'. It was really weird. They could have been sent to a gulag or something if they'd been caught. "And they asked me to sign the bloody wall alongside all these scrawled love notes to McCartney and Lennon and the other Beatles. What a great wheeze, I thought. "So I wrote, 'Allan Williams was here as well!'. It was more than thirty years since I'd dumped the boys but I was still a hero to these kids who'd never even seen the Beatles play live. What a fantastic laugh." Allan was soon snaffled to appear on the television and radio networks across Russia, one of the first western show business 'celebrities' to do that circuit. The Beatles connection made him almost a national hero. "It was great and there I was giving out on the television, the equivalent to the bloody BBC. I even did a spot of compering at shows." But this was apparently dangerous in Russia and his hosts warned him that because he had become a 'known face' he might be the target of criminals, thieves or even kidnappers. So they linked him up with two huge Russian bodyguards. "Christ they were like the equivalent of the British SAS, I was most impressed but secretly amused. Here I was from Liverpool where nobody really gave a toss about me and now I was being treated as a State guest." Allan turns up at the packed Ice Skating arena - the biggest venue in Leningrad - and notices that the celebrated Leningrad State Orchestra were all 'suited and booted' - bow ties and formal evening wear - and were warming up to play Beatles tunes. "When I came in they all stood up and started clapping politely. I was staggered. This was definitely bigger than I had realised. So I wander over just as they have finished having a bash at part of Yesterday and I am chatting with this guy who is the conductor. I just casually mentioned that one of my big ambitions was to sing that song with an orchestra. It was just a bloody throwaway remark. "He stared at me and with an incredulous voice said, 'Mr Williams you can do this? Yes? Then YOU can do this with us.' "There were thousands attending this concert, most of Russia's Beatle fans and even the city's bloody officials. It was heaving with people and the buzz of excitement was incredible. Christ, I thought, Oh no. I mean I'm not exactly a bloody wallflower type but what happens if I make a bugger of it in front of all these people. "But he was encouraging me and nodding. Some of the orchestra had picked up on my unusual nervousness and began tapping their violins with their bows. They all seemed keen for this to happen. So, I plucked up my courage and just burst into Yesterday. "After a second or two I feel a slight tug at my arm as the conductor plucked my sleeve. He coughed, smiled and almost apologetically asked in his broken English if I could sing softer so that the orchestra could get a look in. 'Perhaps, Mr Allan, you can be lower and hush/ he suggested. I laughed heartily and nodded back." With a tap of his baton the conductor turned to the orchestra, bowed to the audience and then raised an index finger Allan's way. Within moments his light, lyrical tenor voice had captivated the

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musicians and the audience. A sea of faces stared up at Allan Williams, the crazy man from Liverpool as he was carried away with the lovely refrain. Who of them could have guessed that as a youngster a voice coach had taken him under his wing, the local school and church in his hometown impressed with his latent talent. This was the distinguished voice trainer Edwin Francis who worked in Crane's music store in Hanover Street in Liverpool. "Yeh, he was known by everyone as Maestro Francis and had once worked with the superb soprano Rita Hunter and a Liverpool tenor with the unlikely name of Ramos Ravenos, who was a former docker. Francis had a lovely tone of his own, especially his glorious Italian bel canto method of singing, which was what he taught. "In fact I wasn't really that great a fan of Beatles songs or Gerry and the Pacemakers, indeed any of the beat stuff. Sure I enjoyed listening to it but I must admit I wasn't an aficionado as such. My own favourite music is Gilbert and Sullivan. I adore their light operas such as HMS Pinafore or the Pirates of Penance; they really give me a buzz. "You know, at one point I was active in the Bentley Amateur Operatic Society and in the 1950s I sang regularly with the Catholic Metropolitan Operatic Society. Yeh, so I could've maybe sung opera full time after my training and certainly wasn't into rock and roll. "I had been brought up listening to the sound of dance bands thanks to my dad. The honest truth about my diversions in pop music was because I thought there was money to be made at it. No other reason, nothing pretentious. "And I certainly wasn't after all the young lads, like many of my contemporaries on the scene in the early Mersey Beat days. "Hmm, at one point I had even toyed with the idea of becoming a professional singer," mused Allan before his typical self deprecation asserts itself again as he jocularly declares: "And to this day I often let rip with an operatic aria when I've had a few drinks in the middle of a pub session or party." The crowd in the Leningrad Ice Skating arena listened intently, absorbed as Allan's voice soared around the arena with that melody so familiar to most of them; flowing from the vocal chords of the man who had been so close to the musical idols that they would never ever meet. Later Kolya Vason was to remark that Allan's short set was one of the most moving moments of the whole concert. The orchestra's lush strings adding lustre to the mellow sound as Allan was almost carried away himself by the emotion of the song, the place and his own memories; the lyrics of McCartney's beautiful song itself resonant of his own beguiling life story. "I expected the audience to join in, at least pockets of them, but no one sang along with me. They just sat listening and looking. It was a little unnerving but I was on a real high. And, yeh I sang it right through without any mistakes. Ha, my first public performance of the song, and the last. "I bet if Paul McCartney knew he would be proud of me, 'cause I know that's one of his own favourite songs and it's certainly mine. I've never sung it like that since. Of course I've lashed it out when drunk at home in Liverpool or at Beatles convention parties but only in a semi private way. I've never performed it on a stage with a group or anything. "And, you know, no one in Liverpool or Britain knows that I did that only those friends who were with me. You know, folks, I do tend to go on about things but I've never really told people about that night, maybe because it was so special." In fact, as Kolya was to report, Allan's rendition of the McCartney love song was the highlight of the show and there was tumultuous applause at the end, even from the Russian pop groups that were waiting their turn to appear. "It was the greatest thrill I've ever had, the proudest moment of my life, singing THAT song with that orchestra. Who would ever have believed it? "I think the conductor actually took a shine to me although he did seem a bit on the effeminate side. Mind you, it might have been just his affectionate way, him being the maestro and all. After the show we had a massive party at a riverside bar. The conductor gave me records as gifts and we were dancing on tables. Some time later he actually came to Liverpool to visit me. We have become really good friends.

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"When the night was over I head off back to the hotel with fistfuls of roubles, my pockets were bulging with them. I had a wad about three inches thick. There were literally thousands of them but only worth about a fiver in British money, if that. "Of course throughout the stay I was mostly over the bloody moon with joy. But as luck would have it, once again it had turned a bit sour. After that five-day trip was over I vowed they could all sod off. I wouldn't be doing that again. No way. "Turns out because of the strict currency regulations they couldn't pay me. Well not properly. Not a bloody bean. Well, certainly not in sterling or even US dollars. I was on the warpath for hours causing hell about the situation and everyone kept out of my way. The bastards had been too frightened to mention it beforehand and because everything was being paid by them, I never bothered to give it a second bloody thought. "I'd just assumed everything was hunky dory when after the concert this dipstick wanders up with a huge bag of roubles smiling broadly and says, 'Here ees your pay, Mr Allan'. "Hey, I though. I'm certainly in the money now. He had handed them to me rather sharpish though, but I hadn't noticed his urgency to get away. It was like a big bag of bloody swag from a robbery. I just dumped them in my hotel room ready to take home. Little did I know the truth. "Christ, officially I wasn't even allowed to take them out of the country. I did though, sneaking them through Customs but they probably thought I was some foreign nutcase, as they knew they were worthless. I've still got two massive bloody glass jars filled with useless roubles. "So, there I am giving the promoters a load of shit about the money and the translator - a guy called Vitalay - is watching but saying nothing, his lips pursed in disapproval. "Just before I headed back to Liverpool he takes me to one side and gives me a bloody good ticking off about my attitude over the pay. 'When you were complaining about the money, you know you got about 10,000 roubles. Hey, Allan, my mother is the head of a pharmaceutical company here and that's about a year's wages for her. And I couldn't believe that you were whinging. Allan you really pissed me of that day. "I did cringe for a moment or so but quickly reckoned that Vitalay needed a lesson in global exchange. I responded with an admission that maybe I had been a bit over the top but told him in no uncertain terms that in western standards the cash wasn't worth a bloody carrot. 'Well sure/ I ranted, 'it may well have been a lot of money in Russia, more than you earn in a year, but I'm not even allowed to spend it in the bloody shops, or even the hotel. Stuff that in your effing pipe, mate'. And then we both laughed and wandered off for a drink. No point having a bust up about something as unimportant as money. Ha. "All the bloody hotels were enormous barns of places and would only take hard currency from foreigners who were paying. You know, US dollars or sterling. Well, I certainly wasn't lashing out on their over-hyped prices. The bastards." In truth, canny as ever, Allan had sneakily discovered a warren of sleazy, cheap little bars hidden down the back streets close to the hotel. "We went to them to get arse-holed with the locals and our minders. The barkeepers there didn't give a flying fuck that I was a foreigner. They'd take anyone's money, dollars or worthless roubles; and, hey, the champagne was only about 25 pence a bottle. I thought I'd landed in heaven." Still as high as kite after the show and the party Allan is wandering around the corridors of his hotel at three o'clock in the morning looking for his room. He'd even lost his minders in the melee of Russian drinking and camaraderie. He'd already found out the hotel was once the official former Communist Party Hotel, where all the leaders would stay, and was considered the best in the land. "Yeh, I thought, so what? I was up on the tenth storey, as per usual in Russia, and fell out of the lift after it had rattled and rumbled its way upwards. Even that was a bit frightening, as you just didn't trust the bastard to keep going. At any moment I felt it would suddenly hurtle me to my doom in the basement. "You would be right in assuming that after the session with the orchestra I was a bit pissed. I was stumbling around scrabbling in my pockets for the room key when there right in front of me I spy this beautiful looking Russian woman of around 25 years of age, just hanging around my door.

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Suddenly she bumps into me, deliberately. Wow, I thought, wow I don't believe this. Nothing to lose here and I say to her, 'Hello, do you speak English. She replied Ya, that she did, smiling at me. "Almost stammering I asked if she would like to come to my room, I've got champagne, I slurred. I expected to get a slap around the face but was flabbergasted when she said yes. She spoke English in a sexily sultry attractive guttural Russian accent and replied, 'I would very much like to come to your room/ "I thought I was dreaming. Her name was Tanya and this blue-eyed beauty ended up staying the night with me. Then she hung around day and night for the whole week. We made passionate love for days on end. She stuck to me like glue. I was astonished. "And the group of musos from Liverpool couldn't believe it either, this stunning, blonde-haired woman hanging onto my arm and every word. They laughed derisively that no one back in Liverpool would believe any of it; it would be just another of my made up yarns. "It only dawned on me half way through the week that she was probably a plant, a KGB agent, but even that made me howl with laughter. "Turns out she was indeed quite high up in the security service, an inspector I reckoned. The penny dropped for me when we didn't have to queue up in any of the hotels five restaurants, as we had when we first arrived, and like everyone else. I found out then that for sure she was indeed KGB. "Wow, I thought, if they are gonna stitch me up I'd be bloody made up, really chuffed. It would be all over the bloody papers and everyone back home would have to believe me. "Tanya certainly had the pull of power. Usually guests, even foreigners, would have to order the food in advance just to get in to get in to the bloody hotel restaurant and then stand patiently in line. With Tanya on my arm, we just waltzed through to be given the best table and no one objected. In fact, they were almost falling over themselves to be accommodating. Christ, this was the life style. I could get used to this, I thought. She would stride right through into the kitchens without saying a word to anyone, her head thrown back haughtily, and then she'd come back a few moments later clutching half a dozen bottles of champagne to her ample bosom. "It was bloody marvellous. The lads with me in the group were a bit pissed off at first because they couldn't get any champagne for love or money, the excuse being that it was rationed. Often they couldn't even get in to the restaurant. I thought this hilarious. "In a sulk they would shuffle up to me - because Tanya and I always dined alone at a table - and in a begging tone plead with me saying, 'Look Allan they won't bleeding serve us can you get your woman to get us in?' "And she would smile enigmatically and wave her hand at the maitre 'd who'd nod an acknowledgement and beckon them with a snotty wave of his hand. This rag, tab and bobtail bunch of hungry, scruffy Scouse musicians would then pile into the restaurant, which I had nicknamed the 'roubles bar' because that's about the only money it wouldn't take. It was nonstop: 'you give us dollars, dollars, dollars'. "Then at other times the lads would yell over from another table that they had no champagne and she would say, 'No Problem.' Shout at the staff, march straight behind the bar and come back with more champagne for the lads. And we didn't have to pay a penny. It was superb. "It was an odd experience because I'm sure the hotel people didn't have a clue about my identity. They certainly wouldn't ask Tanya and the rumours must have been rampant. That bastard must be somebody important they probably thought, so we'd better behave. But it was hard to know what the hell was going on because the Russians are such a strange lot. "You couldn't really be sure if all this palaver was just Russian courtesy because I was a foreigner and had been on the telly. But I soon stopped trying to figure it out and had a whole week of crazy partying throughout the night, linked in with all these national radio and television appearances. Yeh, I did feel like a celebrity but it didn't go to my head; that was just the champagne and vodka. Ha, ha."

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9 - the frolics continue in Moscow as Allan is nearly murdered buy a jealous husband and is then accused of stealing a war hero's medal It was only a five-day trip but Allan packed more into it than most people would in a month. Not the least of his troubles nearly being murdered by a mad man. He was on the verge of being thrown out of a tenth storey window by a crazed, jealous husband "Yeh, later on after I survived I thought it was very funny I suppose, if nearly dying can be thought of as funny. The Russians seem to think so. "They are experts at throwing people out of windows in Russia. When they are drunk or whether its political, doesn't seem to matter much. Hello, excuse me I'm just going to pitch you out of this window. Bye, bye. "Usually that's why they book you into the top floor of the highest apartment or hotels they can find; seems it makes it easier when they want to hurl you out of the window. Crazy bastards. I don't think I could ever get used to that way of thinking," and he falls about laughing. For the duration of their stay Allan's hotel room was considered the 'communal' meeting place and part of the deal was that he would be supplied with copious amounts of Russian champagne and, naturally, vodka by the barrel. "Too right. I always get my priorities in order." "That meant it was well known where I was as everyone would congregate there to start the evening or wind it up. I was used to people barging in and out, but not on that occasion. The saga of the insane husband actually involved the Leningrad orchestra who had a very attractive female interpreter who was also the musical director's personal secretary. "Of course I knew her. She'd been around since we arrived. But I had my KGB girl and hadn't even made a pass at this woman. It turns out this fellow with me from Liverpool was knocking her off, screwing her. And I thought they were just being friendly. "Unfortunately - well it was for us...well me as it happened - she was married to a guy who was built like a fucking ox. It turned out he was also a little intolerant of his wife playing away from home. "Somehow he got wind that she was having an affair. He went crackers. I was told later by one of the orchestra who had thought it all a great fucking wheeze. Some bastard told him it was me! He thought I was the bastard that was screwing his wife, for Chrissakes. "Anyway I was sitting quietly in my room with this friendly interpreter guy Vitalay about midnight having a drink after a show. We are expecting a few of the boys and a shuffling sound in the corridor didn't concern us unduly. "I nearly jumped out of my skin when the bedroom door suddenly bursts open - it sounded like a boot smashing into it - and this feller comes crashing through, screaming like a banshee in Russian. "Startled I asked him who the fuck he was, although I could tell he was a bit agitated and not that keen on a quiet conversation. And how. My interpreter went white, which worried me a bit, and I asked what the hell was going on, getting a little apprehensive as this guy was waving his arms about and bellowing. "His eyes were glaring wide and he spied me in the corner. Oops, I thought, as he charged toward me. Then without any warning he grabs me and picks me up in his mammoth arms and lurches towards the window. It suddenly dawns on me with a sickening fear that this lunatic is obviously intent on throwing me through the window. "I slowly and in my best modulated tones - as best as I can from my vantage point high above the raging husband's head - suggest through gritted teeth that Vitalay kindly inquire what this gentleman wanted. The interpreter merely shrugged and said, 'Ah, well Allan, it seems he's gonna kill you. You know'. "What for? I screeched. I don't even know him." 'Because he thinks you are 'fucking' his wife', was

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the abrupt, chilling reply. "And I was just speechless. I was above his head being held like a landed salmon thinking my number was up. And it wasn't even my fault, for once. "I was terrified as this ox-like figure was swaying fast towards the window, me dangling there in his arms looking out at ten storeys up above the bleeding concrete pavement. I yelled, 'Look, Vitalay, you know who's fucking his wife and he's with her now six doors down the corridor. Tell him that's where she is. Tell him now, please! "Finally, as though he had realised the urgency of the incident, Vitalay jumps in and grabs the guy and starts babbling in Russian, 'Look it's not Allan Williams it's another guy.' "Well, I was gob smacked as the next minute this brute bursts into tears and puts me down gently on the floor. He starts smoothing my crumpled shirt and gripping me in what he must have reckoned was a friendly bear hug - but was in truth excruciatingly painful - apologising profusely and begging forgiveness. "I was still trembling like a leaf but I've been in similar scrapes and know the drill. So, shaking off his smothering embrace, I took a deep breath relieved that I was still alive and waved to him that it was okay. "Okay, okay, okay," I growled still shaking as he wept and blubbered. He may well have calmed down but Christ, if Vitaly hadn't been quick off the mark that day I'd have been a gonner for sure. "The poor cuckolded husband backed out of the door still apologising. I was swigging back treble vodkas to steady my shattered nerves. Then in all the excitement later I forgot to ask my mate how he handled it and events, as usual, overtook me the next day. I never did find out. But I saw him recently and reminded him of that night. I told him I was gonna tell that story. He had dropped me right in the shit that day, well almost. I had certainly nearly been dropped in something. Ha. Ha. "And you know, folks, the strange thing is that I heard that Vitaly ended up being thrown out of a block of flats a few years later. Splattered onto the concrete pavement below, killed stone dead, of course. The word amongst his friends was that he was supposed to have been drunk, naturally. Seems he was holding a party to celebrate the 'revolution' of 1993 when the Soviet Union finally caved in. Officially he fell out of a window. I have me doubts. I think the police killed him. There was always a nagging doubt about that name switch." On this trip Allan had also taken along a Liverpool band to play at the festival along with a group handled by another pal, Carl Poland, who owns a hairdressers shop in Lark Lane in Liverpool, next to the famous Keith's Wine Bar where Allan often held court with his late pal Bob Wooler and courted Beryl Adams. "Yeh, it never rains but it pours in my life, and I remember the first night we were performing and our lads had set up on stage. I am at the front of house giving a spiel to the audience thinking that this was gonna be a good gig. Then I heard shouting and a commotion, the place was turning into Bedlam and I didn't have a clue what was happening. "Over the racket I hears someone shout 'Keep on talking Allan, just keep the audience busy, hold their attention while we sort this out.' "Bollocks, I replied as the audience surged forward for a better look. "I can't speak fucking Russian. I'm getting off this stage. Meanwhile, there was a helluva row going on behind me: the crashing of drums and musical instruments and yelling and screams. Christ, I thought we're gonna be battered senseless. I still didn't know what it was all about but the mood was ugly." What had happened - as Allan found out later - was that the Russian group that was coming on next had pinched all the stuff that the Liverpool band had brought with them like drum sticks and plectrums. These were almost impossible to buy in Russia and in any case they were impoverished. "Their explanation for this whole fiasco was that they couldn't get hold of this gear in Russia and thought they would nick ours. "Naturally, the Liverpool outfit were very miffed and had decided they weren't going to play, which had incensed the organisers. But our lads were all up for a scrap with the Russian group anyway. I reckoned it was gonna turn into mayhem and was trying to figure a way out. Yet again looking for an escape route from a disaster.

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"The Liverpool lads had tried to grab their belongings back but an angry little crowd had gathered around them. Christ, I thought, we'll be left for dead. It looked bleak for a while but suddenly all the fury evaporated. I could feel this release of tension. I still don't know why but fortunately we had smoothed it over. Maybe the Russian secret police had weighed in and put the squeeze on these guys. Who knows? Phew, another near thing." A few years later and Allan is back in the bosom of his Russian pals, a guest once more for a Beatles event. It was just after the name Leningrad had been despatched to the dustbin of history and St Petersburg was on every one's lips. "Ah, it was a great feeling as we foreigners - me especially which was a bloody eye opener for a change - were the toast of the town. You know, folks, I was lapping up every minute but St Petersburg certainly wasn't the sort of place I expected to by accident bump into anyone I might know from Liverpool. Ha, how wrong I could be, again. "One night there I was with my merry little band on the way to yet another thrash of a party full of Beatles freaks. To my utter surprise I heard an English voice - and a Scouse accent as well - calling my name. 'Hey, Allan! Williams! It's me'. Totally confused, I turned around and spotted this photographer guy from Liverpool, Terry Mealey. I'd known him for years and we even drank in the same pubs. Christ, I bellowed, it's you, Terry. What are you doing here? Checking up on me?' Terry Mealey, a respected veteran Daily and Sunday Mirror photographer, confirms Allan's wild Russian adventure with a resigned shrug. Sure enough, he had known Williams from the old Mersey Beat days in the sixties and was a one-time colleague of Bill Marshall, Allan's old newspaper pal. I'd heard all the tales of Allan's madcap adventures and had shared some of them in the UK. But couldn't believe my bloody eyes. I was in St Petersburg purely by coincidence on a dream photographic assignment.' But neither knew the other was in the former Soviet city of Stalingrad, which had only earlier that year re-established the former imperial name of St Petersburg with the fall of the Soviet Union. Mealey recalls being booked into the hotel and was quietly having a drink in the bar with colleagues. "It was my first time in Russia and I was excited at the prospect of the fashion shoot work ahead for a major high street store in the UK. T was enthralled at being in a country which I had always wanted to visit but couldn't because of the Soviet restrictions, certainly for journalists and photographers. 'Suddenly there was a racket of noise coming from the corridor and everyone looked around to see what was happening. There was hollering, shouting, singing and largely good-natured yelling. I thought it was just a bunch of drunken Russians out on the town and with too much vodka under their belts. 'How mistaken I was. My eyes almost popped out when I spied through the giant mirror above the cocktail bar the lop-sided figure of Allan Williams being propped up by a luscious looking blonde, obviously Russian, woman...a young girl really. 'I thought, God Almighty I'm thousands of bloody miles from home and the first thing I see - the first bloody incident of any note - is that wee bugger Allan Williams, much the worse for drink, in the hands of this gorgeous woman. It was unbelievable. He lurched over to me as though it was a perfectly normal scenario, grinning widely. As though we had just banged into each other in his favourite pub in Liverpool. He almost fell on top of me, gave me a massive hug and with a huge wink, and a lustful smirk, shuffled off with this girl in tow.. .1 just couldn't believe it.' There was to be one more memorable incident before Allan got home. His clash with the feared armed public security police. He set off on a crisp early morning to hop a plane back to Britain and was shuffling through corridors towards passport control weighed down with plastic bags full of merchandise and gifts. But trouble was looming. Allan never even gave a second glance at the burly Russian cop with the dark, brooding eyes flickering suspiciously. The Uzi machine-gun wielding Russian was glaring at the foreigners

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scuttling through the departure security zone at Moscow Airport. His cold gaze swept over them when suddenly he froze and then leapt forward, grabbing the arm of the red-faced man carrying a couple of plastic bags. He wasn't to know that this was the notoriously famous Allan Williams, the man who'd ditched the Beatles. Or that he was an official guest of his country. He was one of the few people Allan had met that week who'd probably never heard of the Beatles. "I nearly jumped out of my bloody skin as I felt myself being manhandled. Then I turned and saw this great hulking brute." Allan admits that earlier he'd fortified himself with a few nifty vodkas for the journey; and in Russia this was only to be expected, if not an insult to one's hosts to refuse such a fine liquid breakfast. "Well, I'm not going to insult my hosts, so yeh, I'd had a few." Something about his demeanour wasn't quite right to the stubble-strewn policeman. He gruffly called the stern customs officials who hustled Allan's bags onto a table. Nothing. But as they began a rapid body search the hand held scanner screeched. Bleary-eyed Williams, hardly the typical British tourist, grimaced. "There was this bleeding bleeping. And it was coming from me! All my clothes were strewn everywhere. They demanded I turn out my pockets as well, and that was my downfall. I had to laugh but they didn't seem to find it funny." There jingling with the coins and keys, noted the weasle-eyed guard, was a gold medallion, with Russian script. It was a revered military medal for valour in battle. The eagle eyed customs man yelled in triumph. It was the bloody Russian equivalent of Britain's Victoria Cross or the US Purple Heart. Aha, this little bastard was in deep shit. He was obviously not a native and medals of honour bestowed by a grateful nation on its war heroes were definitely not marketable commodities, even in an economically devastated Russia, and certainly not to blasted foreign devils. Sheepishly, Allan grinned and then sighed wearily. He was totally knackered. "I was also a bit woozy from too much vodka at breakfast, which didn't help my mood. I was travelling back to Liverpool and just wanted to sit down and have another quick drink as a 'curer' before the long flight. I could do without this shit." "Hey guys, lighten up, I yelled in a friendly manner. But there wasn't so much as a bloody shimmer of a smile. An English-speaking official grunted at him. 'Where did you get this medal? You have stolen it, yes? You are a cheap thief, no?' "Bugger off, I traded it for a Beatles's t-shirt with an old boozed up bloke in a bar. He couldn't wait to get shut of it. I thought it would make a great memento of my trip," Allan retorted with a guffaw. He casually noticed through blood-shot eyes that the official didn't appear to be laughing back though. 'We think you have stolen this and it is a very serious offence. You must come with us immediately/ the official added. And before he knew it he was being whisked along a corridor and into a Spartan room with - and he shakes his head in delighted disbelief that such real shenanigans still went on outwith of films - a single, bright, bare light bulb swinging from a long flex in the ceiling. "This is all very James Bondish, ain' it," Allan had slurred, giggling. Glancing up he saw the scowling faces of two other policemen. He shrugged. Oops, this could be awkward. "Any chance of calling the British Ambassador?" he asked. The cops just pursed their lips. English they didn't have. And they were privately relishing his discomfort, even hoping for a pay off, a bundle of slush money. Sadly they didn't know he was broke, as usual. "Apart from that stash of useless roubles and I couldn't tell 'em I was trying to smuggle them out, now could I?" It took two days for the British Embassy staff to settle the official 'hash' and another day before Allan was allowed to fly home. Naturally, he left without the medal. "They snarled that it wasn't going anywhere. In the end I think the bloody translator nicked it. I was miffed cause it was worth a few bob and I reckon I could have sold it easily in Britain." The foppish young mandarin from the British Ambassador's office was not a very happy chap either

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as he waved a dishevelled Allan out of his life and back to the UK; but he was certainly relieved. Allan's reputation had preceded his visit and had been enhanced during his short stay. The embassy was clued in to all his antics. Allan kept in close touch with his Russian pals and soon they were hammering on his door again; although nothing came of the idea to publish his book or the Star Club tapes. Undeterred Allan was banging around Britain whipping up funds and support for an ambitious Rock and Roll Monument to be located in St Petersburg, on a site overlooking the Gulf of Finland on the Baltic Sea. "It was a fabulous idea and I had a model of it which I was touting around for months. It was to be in the shape of a massive stone monolith." According to Allan two spheres would orbit its peak carrying John Lennon's messages to the world: one bearing the word Love and the other Peace. "The people who came up with the idea were very convincing and I got the firm impression that it would be built as soon as they could raise the cash," explained Allan, who had made a large donation himself from the thousands of roubles he earned from making lecture tours and appearances around Russia and the USSR. In fact the money amounted to only a few thousand pounds but even that was locked away in Russian banks since it couldn't be taken out of the country. The monument still hasn't been erected.

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10 -the endless long and winding road peddling those Mop Top memories across the globe hut banned from America's biggest Beatlesfest! Celebrity appearances at Beatles conventions have taken Allan all round the world, probably several times over. He's met fans young and old; the rich and even the ne'er do wells; the sad and the sorry: keeping them all agog with snippets and snatches of tales about his adventures, hopes and bust-ups with the Beatles in those early days. Mind you, he's certainly chalked up his share of troubles on these trips, mostly of his own doing he will admit with a wry chuckle. Early in 1976 the 47 year old announced to the world that he was going to try and cash in on in the infamy of his classic showbiz horror story. Various estimates put his lost earnings after the Beatles fiasco at an estimated two million pounds sterling. He was to embark on a series of one-man chat shows calculated to shock; he had even planned a QE2 cruise across the Atlantic paid for by entertaining the well-heeled passengers. The shows did become very popular, in a macabre sort of way, with full houses greeting him. He described it as Beatlemania without the screams. "I thought it was about time I made some cash out of the Beatles. Hanging around like a bad penny for fourteen years is a long time to wait for a payoff," he recalls telling the national press who were on a roll as EMI had reissued 23 original Beatles songs. And they had all smashed into the Top 100 with four in the Top20 within a matter of days. Allan's first ever escapade in the United States was in the May of 1976. And it was a humdinger. It wasn't that long after the publication of the first book to chronicle his crazy life paddling in the shallows of fame, written with his journalist pal Alan Marshall. Allan was in demand here, there and everywhere to promote the book - one of the first to lift the lid properly on those off the wall formative years of the Beatles - and he was invited by a Liverpool outfit called Penny Lane Enterprises - also one of the first to cash in on a name associated with a Beatles song - to attend a festival in Philadelphia. They offered him 500 (US$750) appearance fee. He jumped at the chance. "It was my first foreign trip on the Beatles circus gig and I was really chuffed. And hey, that was good cash in those days just for standing up and talking crap," says Allan. This firm, now long gone and dusted, had been set up by a couple of smart-alec shysters with an eye for business who reckoned they could move in on the huge continuing interest in the Beatles and burgeoning festivals of fans that were springing up worldwide. "For some reason they wanted me in America pretty damn quick and asked me to sort out my own flight and travel. The plan was they would reimburse me later. I did think this a bit iffy but I was naive in those days, even for me. "The firm had nothing to do me with but I was so excited to go to the States AND get a fee for it that I didn't go into it very deeply. That was my downfall. "I wandered into a travel agent called Jet Set Travel in Liverpool and fixed the trip, which cost us 400, about $600. Sure, I felt a bit nervous handing over the cash, it was the kinda money that made a hell of a dent in my bank account then, as I didn't have the clubs or anything to fund my lifestyle. But I thought, what the hell, I'm off to America. "The flight was uneventful and I was setting down to having a ball. Once there I did think it odd that this so called huge two day music festival that had been given such a terrific hype was in fact miles out on the outskirts of Philadelphia, way out into the bloody country. "To my horror I then discovered it was also under bleeding canvas, in a massive tent, for Chrissakes. Seems they hadn't been able to book or persuade a hotel or city centre venue to stage it.

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"There we were, all bloody five thousand of us, jammed in this dam marquee - which even despite its size felt claustrophobic. Christ it was like a bloody circus tent." Matters were turn even worse for Allan, as naturally the heavens opened within an hour of the first performance. And it poured down with rain for most of that first day, turning the site into a quagmire. "We were treading and bottles and all kinds of shite. And, of course, all of this affected the sound levels. The groups were crap as well. "By the end of that day I had come to the conclusion that this wasn't going to be the most successful of conventions I could recall - and remember I had a track record in these matters of disasters myself. I suppose you can blame the piss poor weather, and with the whole bleeding wing ding in a tent. "And there was just the teensy weensy issue of it being about maybe one hundred long bloody miles from the city centre that didn't help either: although in America that doesn't actually mean to seem anything. It's like next door. Well, it certainly did to me. But it was to get even worse. "When I get home this bastard company gave me two cheques with one made out to Jet Set Travel also now gone from Liverpool - the four hundred quid. I handed that into them but it went back and forward through the banking system quite a few times. They were getting a bit angry with me as it was stamped NSR. 'Mr Williams', they said impatiently, 'do you know what that means?' "No, I said which was the truth at first. 'Well, it means Not Sufficient Funds'. The bastards. That was for my travel costs. The cheque bounced. I thought, oh no my bloody fee. I still had the cheque for 500 and quickly tried to get it cashed, several times. I was getting desperate and quite concerned. It kept getting misrouted and finally it landed on my mat stamped with that NSF message. I was incensed. You know, folks, I still have those bloody cheques. I kept them as a reminder of what a stupid arsehole I can be at times. Of course, I never did learn that lesson. "Christ, it was yet another bloody disaster in my life. Here I was on my first gig on the Beatles trail and I had to pay the fare out of my own pocket. "Snag was I was there all told for about five days so it cost me a few bob, what with my partiality for a drink. The other snag was that I was with my wife Beryl and my pal Victor - who has joined me on many of my disastrous adventures - but fortunately they paid their own fares. "The only saving grace of the whole mess was that for the first time I began to meet the fans and realise just what a monumental band the Beatles really were: you know, those lads I'd given away. "And at the convention I also made friends with a gang of memorabilia dealers and there was a little stroke of luck because of that, I thought at the time. While I was performing and giving one of the first of my monologues about my days with the Beatles, this guy Joe Pope is in the audience. He was most impressed with my line of patter, it seems. "Now this guy is from Boston, Massachusetts and the founder of all the American Beatles conventions, although there are some people who will argue that claim. Not me, buddy. He was a decent bloke. 'Hey, Allan', he says as we were popping a few cans in this tent that ponged of sweat and urine, "'Would you consider coming to Boston, I'm putting on a Beatles event there in a couple of months that will make this look even sicker than it is.' "Joe was very affable and convinced me that this July gig in Boston would be a cracker. I was well up for it, especially after the hellhole of Philadelphia. Sure enough it was very well organised and people were gagging for bootlegs of the Hard Days Night film, which had just hit the streets. "As you know I had some tales of woe to tell about that bleeding movie and its glitzy premiere launch in Liverpool when I was given the bums fucking rush by the bastard Beatles. So being there with this film gave me this great chance to sound off and talk up my book. "At the time I was glad I went there for Joe, who'd already done two or three big shows like this and knew the ropes. I thought I had actually got myself onto a nice little earner. "But he soon shattered my dreams of easy bucks when he told me that it would probably be his last event as he'd got hold of the original Decca Beatles tapes. 'Allan, I'm gonna make my fortune from

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them. I want out of this racket and these tapes are my ticket/ he told me honestly. "I shrugged but was privately very narked, largely with myself. I'd made another wrong decision; backed the wrong horse again. Curse it. You see I 'd had the chance to get onto the fast track with people making big, big money on the Beatles bandwagon before I went to Boston." Allan had met up with Mark Lepidus, considered by many to be the most influential Beatles convention impresario in America whose Chicago festivals are raved about; and are the ones that most organisers want to emulate. Lepidus had always been a big Beatles fan and reportedly at the end of 1973 came up with the idea of a celebration to mark the tenth anniversary of the Beatles arrival in America in 1964. He is on record as saying: "After a few months of deliberating I decided to take my personal savings and book the NY Commodore Hotel for the weekend of September 7th-8th, 1974. "But I wasn't going to do the convention without the Beatles permission. I didn't think that would be right. So, on April 28th, I met with John Lennon, told him my whole idea of a Beatles fans convention, with films, special guests, live concerts, art museum and art contest, a flea market, discussions, look-alike and sound-alike contests, auctions, and a charity raffle." It seems that Lennon's reaction to the first BEATLEFEST (now called the Fest for Beatles Fans) fired the soul of Lepidus when he retorted: 'I'm all for it. I'm a Beatles Fan, too!' Lennon even offered a guitar that he had stored in his attic that he would sign and donate for the charity raffle. He duly did this and chose a drug rehab centre in New York as his preferred charity. All the Beatles contributed signed items to that raffle and to the utter amazement of Lepidus, BEATLEFEST made the Cover of Rolling Stone in the late October of 1974. He took the circus to Los Angeles two yeas later and has been back religiously two dozen times but it was Chicago's first FEST taking root in 1977 that really set the pace. It's 26th annual celebration took place between August 16th and 18th of 2002 at the Hyatt Regency O'Hare in Chicago: it had grown to be the biggest and many say the best of them all, overshadowing Philadelphia, San Francisco, Atlanta, Houston, Dallas, Seattle, and Orlando. Ulf Kruger founder of the German Estrel Beatles Festival in Berlin -which has only had two outings so far - insists that it was Lepidus who inspired him. And that he had tried to model the Berlin show on the Chicago bashes of twenty years previously. "Yeh, I knew that this guy Lepidus had been doing conventions for years. He begged me not to go to Boston, as it was a sort of rival to his own Chicago gig. I wasn't that bright I suppose and thought, fuck that; I'll do them both. "Well it didn't quite work out that way because Mark was quite annoyed with me and felt I had let him down. I think he even used the word betrayal, for chrissakes. "And from that moment on I was banned from all Beatles events in the States that he had anything to do with or could influence. So I was an outcast for the oddest of reasons. Me, the Beatles first manager was banned from Beatles related events. It was incredible, just because I picked the wrong guy by mistake. "Ha, it was a right old cock up. Only the second bloody Beatles convention I attend after that first disaster and I get a ban slapped on me. Can you believe that? And over the decades anyone who is anyone who had anything to do with the Beatles - and I mean everyone - has worked for Mark Lepidus. Anybody who's had the slightest, tenuous link is in there shouting the odds. He's staged these events in New York, Chicago and in Florida, and god knows where else. "I am the only one on the 'genuine' Beatles circuit that's never worked for this guy Mark Lepidus, even after all those years. I don't actually know if the ban has been lifted. No idea. "In a way I'm quite proud of that really," he guffaws. "Seems Lepidus is the only one who has the rights to put these events on in the USA now because he carved up a deal with Sony who had the say and they gave them to him. Even if anyone else tried to stage a Beatles event in American Mark Lepidus would shop them to Sony and it would be stopped." That simple, instant decision to go to Boston finished Allan with Mark Lepidus. "I was spitting feathers that those really lucrative American events were out of my reach. "The only good thing about the whole adventure is that I got paid handsomely in Boston. I think it

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was US$1500, a really good fee for two day and a couple of days promotion." Aha, but when Allan gets bad luck, it comes in waves, like an angry, swirling tide. "And how. I remember getting paid a few nights before I was due to leave Boston for home. I had this big, big wad of dollars and I thought, whoa, I'll just take a bit out with me, just enough for what I'm gonna spend that night. If I get pissed with all this money on me, well you can imagine. This was a godsend, this bit of common sense. "It wasn't usually my attitude, so some guardian angel must have thought, Christ let's give the poor bleeder a break, as what happened next is straight out of the Allan Williams textbook of Fate Pissing On Your Parade. "Delighted with my performance and the wedge of cash I went out to the bar opposite and proceeded to have a whale of a time. I was getting stuck into alcoholic cocktails that I had never even heard of, and me a former nightclub owner. I was the toast of the bar when they found out who I was. Odd isn't it that I am popular because of a cock up. "After a few hours of carousing I was feeling knackered but content and thought I'd wander off back to the hotel for a nice kip. It was only about a quarter of a mile back and I thought, chrissakes, even though I am in America where they think pedestrians are Martians, I'm not taking a taxi that distance. I'll walk. Big mistake. "Next minute a saloon car with tinted windows pulls up alongside me and these young guys about eighteen or twenty years of age or so jump out, smiling. They looked like sorta hippies and I didn't twig at all. I thought they must have recognised me from the bar. Hey, I thought, oh great, they're gonna give me a lift. "And they sure enough did give me a lift because before I could yell Boston Tea Party I was on the pavement, on the deck flattened by one of these young bastards. Christ they had a dagger to my throat. Yeh. A big long handle, I can remember that handle still. The knife was thin like a stiletto; I think it's called that but at the time I didn't give a crap about the name, I was panicking. "I was shocked and the breath had been knocked out of me by the speed of their attack. Almost petrified with fear, I yelled, 'Okay lads it's in me back pocket. No problem.' As a matter of fact, folks, that's my standard expression when I get mugged these days." Allan is once again laughing like a hyena having a fit as he recalls this incident, although it must have been terrifying. "It seems to work anyway and regularly saves me getting booted and beaten up. And yeh, it worked then 'cause one of the lads shouted, 'you heard what he said, it's in his back pocket'. "Without any further messing around they went through all my pockets, and took all my money that was on me, and the hotel room key. But the daft bastards just threw it away. Duffers. If they'd had any sense they would have been in that room and lifted the bleeding lot. "Fortunately I only had about US$75 left on me after I'd spent what I had in the bar or tavern or whatever it was called. Most of the money was still in the hotel room. Thank Christ. It was an unusual stroke of genius on my part not to take all the money with me as I usually do. Notes stuffed in every orifice and pocket. "I had a fair bit of cash apart from the fee, you see, I was flogging stuff as well. I had a stall at the convention and I sold very well there: the books and Beatles memorabilia I had dredged up from my past. I was shaken up but at least those bastards didn't get all that much. "That, folks, was just my second Beatles convention experience. Now these disasters seem to have formed a pattern over the years. "Mind you I did one in Seattle the next year and that was uneventful. I didn't get much from it either, though. No money and not even bad memories. "You might assume that those two experiences might have taught me a lesson that would have done for me over this convention malarkey You must be joking. I have another bad tale to relate although you may think it's funnier than all the others slapped together. I certainly didn't at the time. I do, now. Ha, ha, ha. "But first - 'cause its relevant to what happens later with Yoko -1 have to tell you about an escapade with two Liverpool rogues who were living in New York, and even that happened by chance, my

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usual run of luck. "You see, folks, it wasn't all misfortune in Boston that year. Often my dark clouds have silver linings and it's usually to do with expatriate Scousers. There I was lying in the hotel bed contemplating my mugging and lucky escape from losing all my cash - and probably all me teeth -when the phone went. A voice with a thick Scouse accent asked if I was me. "Well, of course, I'm me," I said irritated and impatient. "Turns out it is this guy called Dave who I'd known at the Blue Angel and had been a roadie for a couple of the groups in Liverpool. He'd heard I was in town from a radio show and was determined to say hello. Scousers are like that. He didn't seem that impressed with the hotel I was staying in and I must admit it was a bit crummy. He said snottily: "What a dump, Allan. You gotta get out there. Look I live here, come and stay with me. I've got stacks of room." "Well here was another gift horse I couldn't look in the mouth so I packed my gear and recognised him immediately we met up in the hotel lobby. "So what are you doing in Boston," I asked innocently. I'm a private investigator, a real live private dick like you see in those American movies, gun and all although I'm not exactly licensed to kill/ laughed my old mate Dave who confided that he also ran an escort agency on the side. "I just mentioned to Dave that I was thinking off heading off to New York for a few days rather than go straight home. I always like to tack on a bit of extra fun time to my hard working schedule. 'Hey, no problem, Al. There's a whole bunch of Scousers in the Big Apple who'll make you welcome. I'll give one or two a bell and check out the action. "He comes back and tells me that the gig is on, and that two great guys will meet me at the airport, and that I also knew them: Ronnie and Robert, who were another couple of the old Blue Angel crowd. "Turns out I knew them well, one was the younger brother of a famous British boxer but it's a bit tricky giving out his full name as he was sort of 'on the run' in America at the time. Apparently he and his mate had done a trot from Britain rather than face a jail sentence for thieving or some other misdemeanour. Seems fair enough to me. It was all a lark because they'd sailed to America on board the luxury QE2 liner. "In those days the ship was virtually run by Scousers - well we do have a long maritime tradition in Liverpool, after all folks, even if the big ships don't drop anchor in the Mersey any more. "The scam was that anybody back in the Tool who wanted to skip the country and sneak into the States unofficially, so to speak, would travel down to the south coast port of Southampton in Britain, where the QE2 berthed, and they'd be smuggled aboard. They'd finish up in New York running bars and that sort of thing. It was a well-known secret in Liverpool even if the authorities weren't aware. Ha. Ha. "What the hell, I reckoned it would be good for a wheeze and I sure as hell needed a break to lighten the load after Bill and Ben the Flowerpot Men had worked me over. "So I head off to New York on an internal shuttle flight, always ready for an adventure. At the airport Robert, who is wearing a huge grin from ear to ear, is waiting for me. He winks conspiratorially. He was driving this massive station wagon of a car and as we smoothly roll onto the freeway tells me that I would be staying with the boys out at Long Island in this swish pad. "Bemused I asked what the hell they were doing out there amongst the rich and famous. Roberts soon fills me in on how they flew the coop from Britain and then drops the bombshell about their current deal in the States. "You won't believe this Al, but we're butlers for this big bloody millionaire family. They are one of the richest families in New York and we think they are related to the Vanderbilts. It is a real gas as they only use the house at weekends. You can stay with us." "Once more I was astonished but not as much as I was when this stonk-ing big mansion hove into view after something like a two-mile driveway flanked by flowering rhododendron bushes and other glorious plants. It was like something out of the Great Gatsby although I don't reckon even the author Scott Fitzgerald could have imagined this. It could even have rivalled Buckingham Palace. It reeked of money.

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"They take me on a guided tour of this manse with its several swimming pools, stables and enough rooms to house half a dozen streets of families from Liverpool. The guest room where I was to park my backside was the size of basketball court; make no mistake, with a bed shining with silk sheets. And there were all these ludicrous electrical gizmos; the press of a button moved everything. "We are lolling about on this lawn the size of three football pitches getting stuck into the millionaire family's champagne. It was the life of Riley and no mistake. These Scouse scallywags were living like toffs and all for free...and getting paid. "Robert suddenly jumps up and say, 'Come on Al, its time to go on the town/ and heads for this other gleaming limo. Christ, it was the family Rolls Royce. Jesus, I thought this is straight out of the movies. But we'll all end up in prison if we are caught. "Then his pal Ronnie calls me into the dining room and starts to pull open the drawers of a very large dresser. They were stuffed with glittering silverware and Jonathan is smirking smugly. It was like King Solomon's mines. And as he opened drawer after drawer they reminded me of pirates: that Long John Silver fellow and his mates gloating about ill-gotten treasure troves and pieces of eight. "Bloody hell, lads, I muttered. You could live off these knives and forks for years, forever if you were careful. Doesn't it make you itch? Don't you want to make off with this gear?" I asked glancing at them, and knowing their background I was amazed it was all still intact. 'Nah, not really Al. We certainly ain't going shit on our own doorstep here. It breaks our hearts but we've sort of made a pact. 'As you know Allan, our business was thieving and the like. But we don't even lift so much as a spoon from this place. We are the butlers.' And he looked wistfully at Robert. "I thought the whole sketch was insane and casually asked how come they'd landed these plum jobs as butlers. "I was intrigued still. 'And why America?' And they confirmed that they'd had no choice as they were on bail in the UK and were facing possible five-year stretches in prison. Ah yeh, no joke that, I agreed. 'So there we were Al, we had just arrived in town off the QE2 and were wondering what we might do to make a living. We were in this bar having a drink when the owner noticed our Scouse accents. He was also from Liverpool. Hey lads, he said, all the rich people here love the Scouse accent because they are nuts about the Beatles. Look, I know this guy - very wealthy - who just adores Liverpool and the Beatles. He wants staff in his house. I'll put your names up, what do you reckon? ' And so they bunged in their applications and got interviews but instead of putting on airs and graces like you might expect from a British butler they laid on the Scouse accent with a trowel, thick and heavy. 'This rich guy was over the moon and he loves it every time we referred to him in a lively and less than deferential way, rather than the usual sir/ snorted Ronnie. 'So in fairness we can't let him down and pinch his bleeding silver, now can we?' Then they all fell about in a heap laughing. "Between them they rustled up terrific meals in the cavernous kitchen of the Great Gatsby house, which they served on the valuable solid silver tackle that was out of bounds for thieving. I acted out this fantasy life for three days on Long Island in the lap of luxury. In the distance I could hear and see the Atlantic Ocean and see the winking lights of tiny boats, bobbing at anchor in the exclusive harbour. "Sure enough, it would have made a great movie: these two Scouse scoundrels who throughout the week dined on gourmet grub, drank the finest of wines and malt whiskies and then at the weekend waited hand and foot on a family of oblivious rich Yanks. What a hoot. And they never stole so much as a spoon. "I've lost touch with the boys in recent years and haven't heard from them or about them for a long time. I just hope they are still out there cutting a dash, butling away like billy-oh and not rotting away in a dismal prison cell dining on porridge. "I was told - although its only hearsay - that one of them got lifted, deported back to Britain and did a stretch. But the other lad - and I don't know which - is still doling out the champers to stinking rich Americans. Good on him.

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11 - Yoko gets an ear bashing from Allan as she makes an urgent early morning telephone call from New then a Jacaranda musical hits the skids in the Big Apple It was weirdly because of Robert and Ronnie because of very private stuff stolen from John Lennon - but not by them or any of the Scouse lads in America that knew Allan - that 'our hero' first had personal contact with Yoko Ono. Snide comments and mockery have spilled from the lips and pens of music and media critics over the decades as Yoko Ono has warbled - and screeched almost tunelessly, it has to be admitted through a catalogue of dire records in a bid for chart glory with usually only her late lamented husband John Lennon cheering her on from Cloud Nine. Some of the fans hated her almost as much as they loathed Linda McCartney. Yet Allan Williams is persuaded towards a generosity of spirit where Yoko is concerned. "She gets slagged off all the time by these nobodies. She deserves a break. She's never done me any harm. "I know she has a reputation amongst some of the media and Beatles fans for being a bit po-faced and difficult but I've never found her that way. She's always been very charming and sincere. "Over the years we've always got on well, even though I've only met her a few times. It was always amicable, almost. Apart from that time when she gave me a ticking off for trying to flog her rare Beatles film footage. I had sort of 'borrowed' it from the BBC," says Allan, although he insists her anger was diluted by a half disguised smile of admonishment and didn't harm their friendship. But it didn't start off on a good note, no siree. In fact he swore at her like a trooper, letting rip with a torrent of foul-mouthed invective. Yoko had heard that Allan had wind of a scam by a rascal she and John had once employed; a trusted general dogsbody who had turned bandit and was trying to sell items he had snaffled behind their backs. Keen for further details, she called from New York in the early hours of the morning to Allan's south Liverpool family home in Grove Park in the Toxteth area of Liverpool England. He was fast asleep. He remembers growling as the endless sound of the phone trilling woke him up. "I looked at the clock. It was about 4.00am. Shit, I thought. That bloody thing will waken the whole house. I staggered out of bed and downstairs to answer it. "Yes? I bellowed, not feeling very chuffed at all. This very soft, feminine voice says, 'Oh, are you Allan Williams? ' I replied brusquely, 'Yes, and who might you be at this time of the fucking morning? As she gently began to try and explain who she was to a grumpy, drowsy Williams he slammed the phone down on her snarling. "Oh, yeh? Really? Well I'm fucking Mickey Mouse. Clear off! You must be a fucking loony to call at this time of the morning." A bemused Yoko called back within seconds, tittering she said. 'Hello, Allan. Look I really AM Yoko. Honest Allan. I'm in New York. Please don't hang up. I need your help. "Shit, it is her I thought. Oops, I've just told Lennon's wife to eff off. I quickly turned on the charm factory." Allan's admittedly loose friendship with Yoko had all started when he got a call from that old pal Robert - and the fellow butler pal - who were still living in America. It was a few years after Lennon was murdered. "Robert calls me to say tells me that he'd been at a party and got talking with a loud mouth who blagged that he'd worked as John Lennon's right hand man. It was a feller called Fred Seaman and I had heard of him as it turns out and he'd just been a gopher. Still he had rifled Lennon's gear most effectively. Cautiously at first, Seaman sidled up to the couple of guests he had overheard after he thought he

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recognised the Liverpool accent. He asked them if they were Scousers. When it was confirmed that they were, he asked if they had heard or even better knew Allan Williams. Sure, they said he stayed with us here a while back. 'Wow, that's just what I want to hear/ he said enthusiastically. What luck. Lowering his voice in a conspiratorial manner Seaman confided that he had an exclusive private tape recording of Lennon singing in the Dakota Building. 'I whizzed it from Lennon's apartment when he died. I want to bootleg it. Its worth a king's ransom/ said the sleazy Seaman. 'I heard that Williams was involved in those lost Hamburg tapes?' Yeh, said Allan's mates, curious as to where this was all leading. 'Well/ remarked Seaman declaring his hand, 'Do you think he would be interested in bootlegging this Lennon stuff for me?' Sleaman had casually helped himself to family photos and mementoes and sold them off to collectors. "Of course," mutters Allan angrily, "he hadn't had the guts to do it when John was alive. Oh, no, he waited until he was gunned down. Jesus, it made me feel sick to the stomach. Oh, silly, silly John and Yoko. The bastard." The boys, no stranger themselves to shady dealings, shrugged and readily gave the thumbs up, reckoning that at least Allan would talk about it. It was Robert who confided in me, 'Look Allan, I've got a copy of the tape off the bastard. Do you want to do this? "I've never heard of it. And you must be joking, I replied. I couldn't do that. It would be like robbing the dead. I can't handle that. But an idea hit me. Tell you what Rob, tell him I am interested and get him to send me a copy of that tape. I'll check out if it's genuine." The tape, called Serve Yourself, has now become a famous bootleg because people without the scruples that Allan had displayed eventually picked it up. It's not a good recording but Lennon can clearly be heard singing to his tiny son Sean. "I've still got my copy of the cassette somewhere amidst the other Beatles debris in my flat," admitted Allan. "When the tape arrived in Liverpool, I immediately phoned up Yoko in America but as per usual I couldn't get through because of all the clowns who put barriers up and want to be control freaks. I just dropped the tape into a drawer and forgot about it. "It was some time later just by chance I hear that Yoko was in Liverpool visiting Strawberry Field. She was there to show young Sean some of the sites that his dad had sung about. "I thought, right she needs to know about this bloody tape. I'll track her down and hand it over and blow the gaff on that Sleaman guy in America. "That day I'd also met up with a few pals and naturally a couple of drinks were taken. Later I thought I would just pop along and try to have a word with Yoko who was staying in the famous Adelphi Hotel in Liverpool city centre. Friends, working on the front desk, surreptitiously told me that she was in her room having a rest. "Ha, that's fine, I thought. I had the tape in my pocket and was determined to give it to her. I wanted her to know that I didn't want it and warn her about the shite-hawk who was robbing her blind. Seems the bastard had swiped a stash of other stuff from her apartment in New York. "Right, I had another few little drinks and decided to wander up to the Adelphi and unload the tape. Its late afternoon by the time I'm staggering up the steps of the Adelphi's lavish reception hall. Sure, I was well pissed. "But when I got there I discovered that she'd taken the whole fifth floor and had it sealed off with security men. After John's death she wasn't taking any chances. Fair enough, to me. There were still plenty of nutters about who would find it 'amusing' to pop her off. And she also had Sean there. "I reckoned it would be okay because I knew most of the porters there - there aren't many places in fact where he doesn't know the movers and shakers in his home city - and I wasn't gonna be deterred by a gang of tough nuts from America. This was my home territory of Liverpool. "So, my pals the porters told me her room number and I knew that if I could sneak past the security bods I'd crack the whole thing. Tiptoeing around the corner I snuck into the goods lift and headed off to the fifth floor, chuckling at me cleverness.

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"The oversize goods lift doors clattered open and I stumbled out and tottered around the corner where these big bouncers, huge American loons were gathered in a huddle. "It was clear I couldn't ignore them. 'Hey lads', I shout, 'I want to see Yoko. Tell her its Allan Williams'. They shot round startled and a few of them made for me. They gave that cold, menacing bruiser's eye that would have frozen a firestorm. "One leans towards snarls, and me 'Who the fuck are you, man? Look, just piss off "I was quite indignant at this and said, Hey, hold on my man. I just want to say hello to Yoko. And I've got this tape to give her. Tell her will yer? "Sure, I was creating a bit of scene, because you know...it being me. I sensed they were getting a bit enraged with me because they thought I was just this drunk trying to geg in on the famous. I'm fumbling in a pocket for the tape when one of these hulks turned quite nasty and spat out, 'Listen feller, just fuck off!' "There was a bit of a commotion as I wasn't gonna stand for this and then they started shoving and pushing and I thought, ah well. Discretion is always the better than valour, or something like hat. Perhaps I will clear off then. And I didn't get to see her. More's the pity." This spectacle was actually witnessed by Bill Heckle who still laughs about it to this day. "I remember Allan being 'escorted unceremoniously' out of the door. It was very amusing." Yeh, well I don't know that much, I was pissed, grins Allan However, it seems Yoko did hear all the fuss and bother in the corridor and asked the minders what the hell was going on with the raised voices. Oh, it was just this piss head, some bum calling himself Allan Williams. He was muttering something about wanting to give you a tape. We just threw him out. "I get told later that Yoko apparently was fuming and told the three blind mice that they should've let me in. They were crestfallen." 'Why wasn't I told it was Allan Williams?' She demanded. 'I have heard that there is this stolen tape doing the rounds. I needed to know what was going on.' The moment was lost and Yoko was due to head off for London and didn't know how to contact Allan at that time. "By the time me head had cleared and I had sussed our where I could get hold of her manager ironically another Welsh guy - and spoke to him at length on the phone she had left the UK. But I told him all about the tape and how I hadn't been able to get to Yoko for all those dopey apes in my way in Liverpool. "Yeh, he agreed security was a bit tight but confessed that Yoko was by then on her way home to New York. Fucking hell, I said to him, this is important. You must tell her the name of this tape because it could be important to her. "I told him about Seaman stealing from her and to tell her that I was not fucking involved; that I thought it was like robbing the dead. Give her my phone number; she can call me if she's interested. Okay, he said, I'll let her know. "After that I hear nothing for weeks and weeks and was when that fateful early morning call occurred," says Allan who can't control his laughter at the memory of that incident. After listening to Allan's tirade Yoko said: "Look it's about this tape you are supposed to have. I'm sorry that I couldn't see you in Liverpool but you know what the security is like. I have to have this security, you do understand don't you? "She asks me to tell her as much as I could about this thieving bastard Seaman and confides that she did know he had been stealing stuff. Seems, Photo; Terry Mealey she went on, he'd even been boasting that when John (Lennon) died all the items he'd stolen would make him a very rich man 'Please Allan, can you tell me about this?' Yeh, sure, I reply. "This tape is John on an acoustic guitar singing to Sean with the words something along the lines of 'forget about your TV dinners serve yourself, it's your ma you love, you know'. It was obviously recorded in the Dakota Building." She gasped, 'Yes, its true. We have known about this and we have caught him at it. But we want to know how far he has gone with this. How did you get this tape?', she inquired.

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"I explained about the two Scouse scallies who were living on Long Island and how they'd been at a party with this guy. And how he wanted me to bootleg the tape. I wanted nothing to do with it, honest Yoko, I said. "She seemed relieved but asked if she could meet up with these two friends of mine. Ah, right, I murmured. 'There's a bit of a problem there, Yoko. They aren't supposed to be in America. Erm, they are a couple of thieves themselves, and they are sort of on the run. The American Immigration office would deport them immediately. Even if they did agree to see you they couldn't give evidence in court or anything like that. Do you get my drift?' 'Look Allan, I promise faithfully that if they do talk to me I won't report them to the police or Immigration. Honest.: 'Okay, I'll need to get their permission.' "So I contact Robert and put the whole thing to him, that Yoko would like to meet them and talk about this guy who was flogging off the stuff. She's already nailed him but needed evidence. I've told her the truth about you guys. Told her you are on the trot and she has promised she won't shop you to the cops. What's the chance of having a little chat with her?" 'Allan, you have to be joking, if we got arrested we'd be in deep shit/ said Robert. 'But if you can give us your guarantee that she won't spill the beans, we'll go and see her.' "Yoko had given me what I thought was a personal direct phone number and I did try calling her back but I couldn't get through. I was quite annoyed with this. A week or so later I get a call from her asking if I'd spoken to them. I thought you said I could meet these people about the tape, she sounded quite sharp. 'Sure/ I said, 'but I can't get through to you 'cause you've just given me your normal office number. Its impossible to get through and no one will take a bloody message. I keep getting blocked. Look Yoko, I pleaded, don't you trust me? Clearly you don't.' 'Okay, Okay/ she said apologetically. 'I'm sorry for that inconvenience. I'll give you my personal number, the one that is just alongside my bed.' "I told her I would clear all this with the lads and that I'd try and get them to call in on her at the Dakota Buildings. I repeated that she couldn't let me down as I'd given my word to them. "Well, strike me down but it seems she gave the lads a lovely time and was so honest and truthful with them. I became the hero of the day with everyone. And good on her she didn't breathe a word of this to a soul. But from that point on she was able to slap an injunction of Seaman to stop his dirty deeds. "That restraining order on Seaman lasted for ten years but I heard recently that he's written a bloody book about his time working for Lennon and is stirring up all sorts of crap again." In fact Yoko Ono had sacked Frederick Seaman in 1981 unaware that he had been looting Lennon's files. Two years later he pleaded guilty to second-degree larceny for stealing Lennon's diaries. He was given five years probation and ordered to return all the property. But apparently he lied. Yoko took out a further lawsuit against him in 1999 demanding that he surrender the rights to 374 photos that he claimed he had taken of John Lennon. It also called for him to turn over 48,000 (US$72,000) that he'd made from the sale of the rock legend's manuscripts and confidential correspondence. It was the latest twist in a nearly twenty-year long feud that had embroiled Yoko in legal tussles with the former personal assistant. According to Yoko Seaman had happily signed an agreement when he was hired in 1979 that prevented him talking about Lennon - and Yoko or Sean - to the media. Part of his duties included caring for Lennon's young son and taking photos at family events. Seaman argued that the 374 photos in dispute where take with his own camera, in his own time, and that he was the rightful owner. "My belief is that loyalty underpins society and friendship. This guy betrayed Lennon and Yoko's trust. That is despicable. After we had sorted out the tape mess, in jest I had said to Yoko, 'Okay you owe me one, you know'. And she laughed. I think I half meant it though. "Anyway I'd asked her what she wanted me to do with the copy of the tape that I had. 'Ah, Allan, I

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trust you. You can keep it'. And you know folks; I never ever made even one copy. Yoko was loyal to my mates and I stayed loyal to her. "Mind you we have had our ups and down, if you'll pardon me. I think she sussed me out a few years later as a bit of a chancer, although one with a warm heart, when I tried to flog her a BBC film of the Beatles. She knew it was an iffy deal. "I'd been in Miami with my pal Vic - somehow he always got roped into the off the wall adventures - wittering on about the Beatles formative years. "Once again I was completely broke but I had this great idea that Vic could sell of the stash of Beatles memorabilia Fd carted with me. He could do the sales patter while I was doing my nattering about pastimes routine. "We'd arrived in Miami hardly flush with funds and within a few hours had virtually run out of cash; well it's hard when a chap needs a drink or two to cheer up the day. Christ we couldn't even afford the price of a round of toast. And we were starving. "That night we crawled into our respective hotel beds hungry and tired with the prospect of a busy day. I was due to go lecturing and hectoring and Vic hopefully badgering and selling. When I woke up I could hear my belly rumbling and some strange, divine instinct told me to take a peek outside the room. "My eyes lit up as I saw a few feet further up the corridor a breakfast trolley loaded with coffee pots, jugs of orange juice and a couple of silver platters with lids. I was still in my dressing gown and slippers but surreptitiously sidled up to this trolley and lifted one of the lids. "I nearly passed out as I saw heaps of delicious, mouth-watering succulent ham and still sizzling fried eggs, the inviting smells wafting over me turning me faint. Furtively I glanced around, saw the passageway was empty and with my heart thumping wheeled the laden trolley back into the room where Victor sat with his mouth open, drooling. "We fell upon the food like scavengers, chomping through every last morsel. When we had finished I wiped my mouth, put the lids back on the salvers and pushed the trolley back outside someone else's door. "What a lark. We had scoffed some poor bastard's breakfast. Vic and I just rolled about laughing but at least we were able to head off to work at the convention with full bellies. And he was even able to sell of most of my Beatles memorabilia and we had money again. Lucky days. "Vic heads off back to Britain but I had other plans, exciting plans. I was off to New York for three days to sort out details of a proposed musical about my Jacaranda coffee bar days when the Beatles painted the toilets for an endless supply of bacon butties. "There was this songwriter composer Chris Seefried in New York who was fascinated by my tales of the famous Jacaranda, which was a favourite haunt of the early beat bands before the Big Beat broke loose. The idea was I would stay with this guy and he would put the music to the words I was writing." Seefried had been in Liverpool the previous year and had accidentally met Allan, heard about the Jacaranda days and was smitten with the idea of a musical. Allan even envisaged 60s Liverpool singer Beryl Marsden in the leading role. Ironically Joe Flannery, one of his archrivals, once managed the singer who many rated considerably higher than Cilia Black. "We had about sixteen songs in the can by then including what Chris hoped would be a dancetempo showstopper called Moonlight on the Mersey," remarked Allan. "He was convinced this could be a big New York Broadway musical telling the story of me, my wife Beryl, the Beatles and all that razzmatazz as well as the fantastic characters who populated that tiny, cramped smoky den of iniquity and frolics during that marvellous era," gushed Allan, still half convinced there is potential in the tale. One of those fabulous people was the legendary Liverpool sculptor Arthur Dooley, a giant of a guy who'd once been in the Guards regiment in the British Army. His staggering output of remarkable creations is now one of Britain's cultural riches; including the statue of the Beatles that dominates Mathew Street opposite the Cavern and his controversial Black Christ that hangs up outside a church in Toxteth, close to the place were the riots erupted in Liverpool in 1980.

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Arthur was a rough and tumble sort of guy and looked like a bad, mean bag of tricks. In truth he was gentle as a kitten. But he was scary if you met him by chance at any time of the day or night as he always looked as if he'd just done a shift down a mineshaft. He was forever covered in head to foot in dirt, dust and filth from his forge, which at one time was next door to the Jacaranda. He was famous in his own right even then but never pretentious, and always sticking up for the underdog. Allan remembers the day he was beaten almost unconscious by a gang of thugs, despite his size. He'd stepped in to protect a frail old bloke they were abusing in a back street pub. At six foot four Arthur warned them to leave him alone but they just sneered and set on him. "I am convinced it was that beating that saw Arthur off to an early grave. He was never really the same bloke after that. Putting him in the musical that we wanted to call Jacaranda Days and Nights would have been a brilliant tribute. I'd heard that there was even a smatter of Hollywood interest in making a film of the show after the Broadway musical. I was floating on cloud nine. "Well, folks, you can guess what happened next. Nothing. It never materialised. The music was great and IVe still got the lyrics and the script is somewhere amongst my jumble of possessions. But it just died a death and got lost in the ether of time/' and he smiles ruefully. Eventually Beryl and Allan sold the Jacaranda to a Greek guy in the 1970s. He got a license and changed its name to the Maxi San Suzi Club. In 1995 after receiving a heritage grant of around 100,000 it has now - still with a liquor licence - reverted back to that lilting Jacaranda epithet and is even home to LIVE@POOL, an award winning, world-renowned Beatles Tours firm run by Jackie Spencer and her pal Jane Mills. "Ha, it cost me something like 350 to tart it up as a coffee bar. I was a plumber buy trade and all my mates were plasters and decorators. We did it all ourselves," murmurs Allan. "This had all come about when I got cheesed with my job as an electric typewriter salesman for IBM in the late 1950s. My then girlfriend Beryl Chang - her dad was from Shanghai - was a primary schoolteacher and got long summer holidays. "We would wander off and hitchhike all over the continent to places like Amsterdam and we had a fondness for the jazz cellars that existed in town and cities all over Europe. It soon struck us that we had come upon an exotic concept that hadn't yet surfaced in a Britain just emerging from years of rationing and austerity. "One day we were in Saint Michelle in the student quarter of Paris, that ultra-trendy, vibrant boulevard crammed with cafes, bistros and jazz cellars. Bingo, it hit us that if we opened a joint like these in England when we got back it could be the start of something big. "And I knew that the '2is' in London had just opened. Well, being a cocky little sod, I reckoned I could do that as well if not better and I was looking for some way to change my lifestyle. "Once back in Liverpool I scoured around and found premises in Slater Street that had belonged to a clock repairer who had gone bust. "There were no such restrictions as planning permission then as long you didn't sell alcohol. We opted for the coffee bar format although it did have to be a private club with membership, which was only nominal and we charged a shilling a year. I think we were also one of the forerunners of the coffee bars. "After a while I'd also decided to try my hand at showbiz promotional stuff and decided to stage the first ever Arts Ball in Liverpool, at the splendid St George's Hall. Sure, I was copying the famous Chelsea Arts Ball in London, but what the hell. "My idea was for an annual event but I needed to get this first one off the ground and garner a bit of wayward publicity. What was required was a collection of lurid floats and flamboyant displays for the ball. They weren't to be permanent as I had this idea that as midnight chimed everyone could get stuck in and smash 'em to bits. That would memorable. Right, I need some creative types who'd knock these floats together, but on the cheap. "There was a gang of art students who hung around at the Jacaranda -amongst them John Lennon, Stuart Sutcliffe and a guy called Rod Murray. I roped them in along with their other arty farty mates, gave them a hundred pounds and told them to get working. "So that's how I became friends - of sorts - with Lennon and Sutcliffe, although I didn't know at the

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time they were musicians; that came a little later. "Of course as history has related Stuart who did a couple of works of art on the basement wall of the Jacaranda. Mind you I thought they were piss poor Picasso rip offs. And my Arts Ball also turned into a fiasco, and then others tried to rip that off. Hmmm, and that's the story of my life. "When we first opened the Jacaranda it didn't have a name. This was a dilemma because we wanted something unusual. We were sitting tossing idea around one day when this friend who had just returned form Australia suggested the Jacaranda. "Puzzled, we all chorused: 'What the hell does that mean?' It's a very beautiful tree that only grows in Australia, he replied. 'Hey, we thought, that sounds okay. And that was that." A long time later a play about Allan - and with the Jacaranda as a backdrop - finally hit the boards, in the most unlikely of places: Dublin, the capital of Ireland. An old theatrical friend of Allan and more so his wife Beryl Williams - whose been well known in theatrical circles for decades for providing digs to actors and actresses on tour - came up trumps by putting on a musical about his early life with the Beatles. In the late summer of 2002 the punters came in droves to the New Theatre in Dublin's trendy Temple Bar to see Irish actor cum dramatist Ronan Wilmot's sympathetic take on the Allan Williams story. Based on Allan's first biographical book Wilmot decided to keep largely the same title: The Story of Allan Williams - The Man Who Gave the Beatles Away. "Over the years many people had talked to me about this but then out the blue Ronan popped up and within months it had happened/' commented Allan. Ronan admits that he is astonished - like so many people - that more than thirty years since they bust up the Beatles popularity grows more potent. On the week that his play opened in Dublin which is twinned with Liverpool - several national UK radio programmes were devoting hours or broadcast time to the phenomenon of the Beatles and the myths. There were queues around the block in the Temple Bar area that runs parallel to the River Liffey in Dublin to see this new evocative stage musical about the group's first manager Allan Williams. And it wasn't just a nostalgia trip for the silver-haired brigades. The youngsters flocked to revel in this tale of wacky woe first written almost thirty years ago in an autobiography co-authored with Daily Mirror journalist Bill Marshall. Allan was doubly excited because it seemed that a pitch to put on the musical play at Liverpool's respected Everyman Theatre was also getting positive vibes. "The idea was to stage it around the time of the annual internationally focused Beatles Convention jamboree in the city," said Allan. The two-hour production looked at the early life of Williams up to the time he 'lost' the most famous group in the world. It enjoyed a celebrity opening in Dublin and the performance was met with considerable critical acclaim from the Irish media, including the prestigious RTE Morning Ireland television show and the esteemed Irish Times. The run was extended. Wilmot is a well-known name and face in acting circles both in Ireland and in the UK where he has variously worked with the Royal Shakespeare Company and a string of repertory theatres; and back in his hometown of Dublin he's a frequent figure at the fabled Abbey and Gate theatres in Dublin. He's also appeared in films such as the Field with Richard Harris, the politically contentious In The Name of the Father and in the film adaptation of the Irish writer and Booker Prize Winner Roddy Doyle's The Snapper, amongst others. He's also a familiar television face on a popular advert for Marmite, the popular yeast based sandwich spread and flavouring. He first met Allan and Beryl - still pals even though they've been separated for more than a decade when working at the Liverpool Playhouse in the early 1980s on the acclaimed Liverpool writer Jimmy McGovern's first play 'Liverpool Echoes'. The three of us became firm friends and I knew all about the tale, so I reckoned I was able to tackle the story from the inside angle myself/ laughed Ronan who decided to also write the script himself, another first. The idea for the play came after he and his pal Anthony Fox, who jointly run the small but cult New Theatre in Dublin, had come unstuck when hoping to put on a version of Liverpool playwright and

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author Willy Russell's now classic musical 'John, Paul, George, Ringo and Bert. It was one of the first musicals to put the focus on the Beatles and the show that catapulted his friend and Scottish singer Barbara Dickson to international fame; and it had premiered at the Everyman in Liverpool. 'Unfortunately, we found that Willy had withdrawn that work because he feels it is now too dated. We were a bit out on a limb and stuck for a show. Then I was in Liverpool for a New Year thrash a year or so back and like a bolt out of the blue it hit me that the story of Allan's life and how he gave away the Beatles would make a terrific stage play/ says Ronan. 'I was bewildered to find that it had never been done. Partly set in the Jacaranda Club in Liverpool, the play featured a band of young Dublin musicians taking the part of the youthful Beatles - three of them brothers while their father, Pearce Butler, took on the role of the older Allan Williams as he narrated the story. Irish actor Darren McHugh played the younger Williams; and Allan was amazed at his interpretation. "Bloody hell, he could have been me," he remarked. Apart from those lads it boasted an international cast that included Dutch actress Martha van der Bly as Astrid Kirchherr, the German photographer who was the ill-fated Stuart Sutcliffe's lover; South African actor Lauren Salaun taking the part of Klaus Voorman, the Beatles mentor and friend; and Garry Lynch as Bruno Koschmider, the seedy night club owner in Hamburg where part of the play is set. And laced with a truly global flavour there was also the Beijing actress Secret Huang playing Beryl Williams, whose own father came from China; Shanghai in fact which as it happens is also twinned with Liverpool. Surely with such coincidences the play was fated for success. When he attended the first night in the Irish capital Allan gave a tearful curtain call speech to a capacity audience, but admits he was very nervous, even scared, as he hadn't read the script and didn't even know if the band could play. "But it was a pleasant surprise. I was very touched. The dialogue is great even if it was delivered in a mostly Irish brogue. And to my huge relief the band can play and sing very well," commented Allan, clearly still quite emotional about the whole saga, admitting that when the story zoomed in on his rather troubled childhood he did tend to 'well-up' as it was rather personal. Well respected for also organising rhythm and blues festivals in the picturesque, remote west of Ireland wee town of Clifden, a pony's trot from Galway - where Allan once even gave a talk on the Beatles - Ronan Wilmot explained: 'I wanted to trace Allan's life from a boy through to the time he took over the Beatles and then let them slip away. I wasn't interested in anything after that as its all part of well documented and told history/ Perusing at the anecdotes in this book, that is debateable, Ronan. Meanwhile, Ronan, was enchanted with Allan's wonderful, offbeat story and was gleeful about the chance of bringing it to Liverpool and then perhaps even off to America. But disappointment was to dog the show. After securing agreement for it to be staged in Liverpool for a week long trial run at the Everyman as hoped the following summer, Ronan was stunned when told that the idea had been scrapped. Allan was upset, certain that at last his fellow Scousers would give it massive thumbs up. "It was being rewritten for the Liverpool run to accommodate more stories of my great pal Lord Woodbine. Then the bloody theatre people dropped a bombshell and complained that they couldn't afford to do it. "In fact, we were told at the eleventh hour that the script wasn't good enough which was quite insulting to Ronan Wilmot who has a track record in Irish theatre and once ironically worked at the Playhouse in Liverpool in the early 1980s, where we met him." Later in a hurried attempt at damage limitation theatre bosses denied that the script was of poor quality and merely stressed their lack of funds. "I was angry and upset that it was dropped in my home city. I couldn't and still can't understand it. This is just the sort of material that made the reputations of the Everyman and Playhouse. We had high hopes it would be a great success." Allan still sizzles at that snub. Even Spencer Leigh, the respected Liverpool music historian and sometime cynic about the

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provenance of Allan's factual catalogue, talked of his surprise that it had been dropped from the schedule. "I went to review it in Dublin and thought it was quite a good little show," he commented later. Allan was more forthright: "It was really embarrassing for us - me and Beryl and Ronan - as it had been hyped everywhere and everyone kept asking when it was on in Liverpool. To say we were surprised when told it had been given the heave ho is putting it mildly. Beryl worked very hard to sell the concept of the play and she was really upset that we'd been thwarted at the last minute." But it seems all is not completely lost. In a rather delightful twist of fate - and how these so frequently fall Allan's way, if not always to his advantage - Ronan Wilmot began talks with the Paul McCartney backed Liverpool Academy of Performing Arts (LIPA). He wanted to test the water and get an impression about the chance of putting the show on in their theatre, a space where McCartney has regularly turned up to hand down degree certificates. He has allegedly even launched into impromptu unexpected if short performances, to the delight of the students and staff, although the lips of those in on the secret are sealed, either through fear of upsetting the great man or the pleasure of being one of an exclusive club. "Yeh, if we could get it on at LIPA that would be a real turn up and one in the eye for the other theatres," thinks Allan but admits there is a long wrangle of talks to face before there is even agreement. There is little doubt that the LIPA chiefs must approach McCartney about it. Even Allan won't commit to what he thinks Sir Paul's reaction might be. He needs to be a lot sharper in business terms than he was when diddled and skewered financially by a couple of irascible film makers who took his name in vain and didn't offer him a penny for the privilege. It's the same old tiresome story of Allan's hail-fellow, well-met approach to life. Some years ago he recalls that he had met up with these characters in Liverpool and they beguiled him with plans for a movie of his life. "As usual I couldn't resist the call of the fame," he laughs, self depre-catingly. But after a while he heard nothing and forgot about it. It was only months later when having a drink with his pal Phil Key, the Daily Post eccentric newspaper's Arts Editor, that Allan learned that the film was done and dusted and being sold as a video. "Phil Key said he'd seen it and didn't think they'd done such a bad job of it. But at least he had the good grace to add: 'But I appreciate how you feel if they've done it without your permission, mate." This largely amateurish piece of work called All Those Years Ago, was actually produced and sold by an outfit appropriately called Shotmaker Productions. Well they certainly shot Allan, in the foot and the pocket. The producer Stuart Hall even had the cheek to send Allan a copy of the film...but only after he had made inquiries. When he played the film, Allan watched incredulously as his character - played by a guy called Paul D Allen - discovered the fledgling Beatles and then traced the subsequent bust up. "Sure it was flattering to think that someone would write a film about me but - and here his voice rises a few octaves - it was so awful. It looked like it had all been shot in a filthy attic flat. I couldn't believe how crap it was and it was obviously supposed to be the Jacaranda." Allan admits that 80 percent of the storyline was accurate but the settings and performances reduced him to laughter. "At first I was really steaming but then I found it funny. The acting was simply atrocious and none of the actors looked or sounded anything like the originals." And the scenes of the Jacaranda were so unfamiliar that Allan felt obliged to write to Stuart Hall. "He showed the Beatles seated at a table with a white tablecloth - just as if - and a serving hatch decorated with colourful plastic strips. "For the record, we had low slung coffee tables without cloths and I don't recall a serving hatch. And the Blue Angel was nothing like the way it was portrayed in this heap of junk. "So I wrote to him and told him in no uncertain terms that I thought it was atrocious and that he didn't have my permission and for him to stop selling it immediately. "He was doing me no favours at all because it is so bad and it did make me realise that there was/is maybe a proper story - without being too big headed - that should be done on my life."

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The film was the brainchild of Grimbsy born Beatle fan Hall who wrote the script and also directed. Ah, and the would-be-film-maker also played John Lennon. He was unemployed at the time; apparently the result of an industrial accident after a pile of frozen fish fell on his head. "The small amount of compensation all went into this film," he explained. "All I can say is that the frozen fish must have damaged his common-sense and artistic eye," was Allan's pithy response. Hall did confess that although he and his crew did 'pop over' to Liverpool for a few location shots, most of the interiors were filmed inside a Grimbsy loft, converted to look like clubs in Liverpool and Hamburg. "For chrissakes, sure I remember meeting this feller a couple of times in the Grapes pub and he was gushing all over me. But I am pretty damn certain that this bastard never, ever mentioned that he was actually working on that film of my life, the early part with the Beatles, the usual crap. "He'd only alluded to it a few times and I thought it was the usual pipedream." The grainy quality of the film and the seedy looking sets suggest the mood of a cheap sex movie while the group appear to perform in clubs to audiences of about five people. "Yeh, it was complete shite," concurs Allan. "When I finally nailed down this Stuart Hall person about that the fact that he had finished the film, I ripped into him telling him how annoyed I was. I was furious for several reasons. Firstly because it wasn't very flattering and had clearly been done on a bloody shoestring, which would have been fair enough if they'd made a good job of it. "But why didn't you ask my permission instead of doing it all behind my back? I ranted at him. "And then he lied through his teeth. He said there wasn't any intention of selling it commercially, that it was only done out of admiration for the Beatles, and me. He promised me faithfully never to sell it and we left it at that, although I still was hopping mad. "Stupid me again, I thought it was only a one off," and his voice rises in anger again, "But then I find out later that he's flogging the thing on the Internet. So obviously this bastard is still trying to make money out of my name." Hall said that he wanted to make the film because he thought previous Beatles films like Backbeat had been inaccurate. And he stressed that he had never planned to make a commercial movie but the feedback after it was shown on local television in Grimsby persuaded him to push it out Allan thinks film fans might take a different stance. "He didn't have much imagination or inspiration, is all I can say. I'm not just knocking them for being amateurs but it was just so badly done. "And as you can imagine, folks, there hasn't been a penny of royalties out of this caper. Not a single cent has found itself my way from Mr Hall's project my direction." When recently Allan found out that there was now a website advertising the film he made further contact through a friend with film-maker Hall. Unfortunately he wasn't very complimentary about Allan in his reply. Allan was livid about the fact that the film was still out in the public domain but this cut no ice with Hall who bluntly said: "This was a labour of love for me, which I will never forget. All the actors in my film were all local kids just starting out in the business. Apart from me." "Some of the movie was filmed in Liverpool, in the basement of the Jacaranda. It is a city I love and know well. Allan Williams is a very slippery customer, but also a bit of a character. I've met him a few times but didn't want to get him too involved with the film. "His is the most amazingly tragic story and one day I hope to make a documentary about his life. I seem to know as much about him as I do myself," he remarked, casually indifferent to Allan's protestations "The cheeky bastard. I've had no money whatsoever from him and there he is saying I am very slippery customer. Well, I'd like to ask who the slippery customer is now? "Christ, it's certainly bloody slippery doing something behind my back and virtually taking my life away from me. Its as if this guy has been walking in my shadow. It's disgusting that he should do this story of my life without me even knowing.

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12- Allan gets a rollicking from Yoko as he tries to flog her 'stolen' rare Beatles BBC film footage but he insists... 'Hey I It was just borrowed, sort of. Of course, there are those who might think Allan's indignation about being conned over a film of his life is a bit rich considering how he tried to once work a filmic flanker on Yoko Ono. Way back in the Fall of 1985 Allan is relaxing in New York feeling confident that the plans for a Broadway musical of his life are looking favourable. He'd chewed the fat with his mate Chris Seefried who'd assured him it was a goer. Now he had a few days to kill in the Big Apple; spot of sightseeing and a wander around the bars seemed a reasonable agenda. Hang on, he though. Why not give his chumess Yoko a call? Pop round have a chat and mull over old times. "What do you think, fancy coming over to see Yoko with me, I asked Chris. He looked like I'd handed him a million bucks. Are you sure? Yeh, I said confidently and I call the private number she'd given me. Sure enough it's Yoko herself who answers. 'Hey, hi Yoko, its Allan.. .Williams', I said breezily to her. 'I'd like to come and have a cup of tea. What do you think? Is today okay?' Pleasant as usual with Allan, Yoko politely inquires what he's up to in New York and seemed genuinely interested about the plans for a musical. Look, it would be marvellous to see you Allan but I've got a very busy schedule at the moment and I can only spare you about five or ten minutes.' Slightly ruffled Allan retorts that he was about forty or fifty miles away from her place in the Dakota Building and didn't fancy hauling all that way for a chat of a meagre ten minutes. "And I'm pretty busy too Yoko. In fact very busy! We both live in mad, mad worlds, eh? Look let's forget it. I'm not in New York that often and just thought it would be nice to see you and say hello. And I'd like to have a proper talk with you; there are a few matters to discuss that might be of mutual interest. Yoko paused and replied: 'Okay Allan, give me your number and I'll call you back in about ten minutes.' "Bugger me, and she did. She told me she'd cancelled all her meetings that afternoon, cleared her diary to see little ol' me. 'Come on over to the Dakotas and we can have a good old chat.' Wow, I was thrilled my earlier annoyance dissolved. Hey, that's terrific Yoko. I'm on my way." As he wanders into the Dakotas, Yoko's smiling manager meets Allan and he leads the way to her apartment. Turning he points at Allan's scuffed shoes and murmurs something about Japanese traditions. 'You understand, Allan. You have to remove your shoes before you go in. I hope you don't mind. It is a courtesy that she expects.' "Oh dear, I panicked at this request. I hadn't expected it. I knew there was this dirty great hole in the toe of one of my socks. And I wasn't quite sure about the smell, as I hadn't had a chance to change them for a day or two. "Erm, is that a must, I mean.... erm? 'What's the matter, Allan?' he asked plainly a little irritated. "Shit what a spot I was in, another social gaffe. Oh, the shame of it. 'Oh, its nothing really but I've got this great bloody hole in me sock and me big toe will be sticking out. She might find that rude.' "He fell about laughing and said that Yoko has a good sense of humour. 'She'll see the funny side of it but I'm sorry, Allan. No matter, they have to come off. That's Yoko's order for everybody. She won't mind the bloody hole, honest'. Allan hobbles across Yoko's huge lounge like a crab trying desperately to disguise the whacking

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great hole. "But my his big toe is peeking out like a bloody potato. What a sight. There's that magical white piano of Lennon's dominating the room and my big toe winking at Yoko as we had a conversation. She did smother a smile at my distress. "I'd brought her along a tape of a radio show I'd done in Florida where I'd bulled her up a bit. It was only short and we listened to it and she liked it. Beaming with pleasure she said: 'Oh, Allan, how very nice of you. How very nice.' I was sitting there preening myself, all thoughts of my bare toe banished. 'What a great sense of humour you have, Allan/ she said and I replied it was vital to look on the bright and sunny side in Liverpool for survival. She chuckled, nodding at that, remembering John's asides and wisecracks. As it turned out I also had with me a copy of a film of old Beatles stuff that I'd sort of 'borrowed' from Liverpool City Council. I had harboured ideas of finding a buyer in New York. It was called Mersey Sound and was rare black and white reel-to-reel footage of the Beatles in 1962 appearing with other Mersey Beat groups that had been made by the BBC. Aha, I thought. Maybe Yoko would be interested. Well, I had nothing to lose did I? Excuse me being so direct Yoko, I said almost sheepishly, but I've got this film here that you might want.. .to erm, buy off me. She looked very excited at this and clapped her hands, her eyes glowing in that glorious Oriental fashion. Smiling she asked if I could leave it with her and she would look at it that night. No problem, Yoko, I insisted and handed over the film. All the while Chris had been tugging at my sleeve urging me to mention the bloody musical. He then got his oar in and asked if she would listen to some of the music he'd written for the planned Jacaranda show. I thought this a bit tacky as my own actions were hardly bloody honourable but then figured with her backing it would be a sure fire winner and urged him on. As it turned out Yoko wasn't gonna bite. 'Sorry, I never listen to other people's music and I always send manuscripts back unopened. It prevents people from bringing lawsuits against me for stealing their material/ she smiled sweetly as she spurned Chris. Ah, well, I thought, we'll do it on our own. Ha. It was agreed that I would return to the Dakotas the next day to discuss terms if Yoko was persuaded to buy the film. I blundered into a blistering ticking off. 'You are a typical Scouser aren't you, Allan, she scolded. 'I know this film. I've seen it before. This isn't rare or even yours! It's a BBC film. You've stolen it. How dare you try to sell me an old BBC film. How Dare you!' Her stern voice was raised and she was wagging a finger at me as I stood cowering before this tiny woman, one of the richest women in the world as well. "I mumbled how sorry I was and tried to explain that I had been loaned it as a propaganda film by Liverpool City Council's public relations office to show at a Beatles festival. 'Look, Yoko, I didn't steal it, honest/ I blubbered. "Erm, I took it to this film studio guy I knew and had it copied. Well, you see I gave the council back the copy and kept the original. They never knew or checked. Heh, heh. Oh sure, I had it copied illegally," I admitted with cheeky grin. 'And yeh, sure I did try to sell it to you but....' After that initial anger she calmed down and did see the funny side of it. She even began to laugh at my nerve. We finished our chat on a good note, although I was rather relieved when it was time to go. And you know what folks she didn't buy the film either. In fact, Allan met Yoko about five years ago again in New York when she reminded him of that incident. "It's just the same as all the outrageous stories in your book, The Man Who Gave the Beatles Away. John loved that book. Why have you never done another? I told her that no one was interested and my spirits soared when she offered to give me a letter to her publisher. 'I will recommend you. "A few weeks later I had an appointment with this leading publisher guy but he merely shrugged and said he didn't think there was any mileage left in Beatles books anymore. I told him that Yoko was backing it but he wasn't going to be persuaded even by that. "I'm sorry, Allan. But there just isn't a market any more.

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"Well, by now everyone knows just how wrong he was. Anyway, despite my attempts to con her over the film Yoko never held it against me and we've stayed pals." Early in March 2003 Allan was back in New York peddling his Beatles wares in the company of Pete Best, thinking it was going to be a music festival focused on the Sixties. They assumed they would be there telling in turns their respective Beatles tales. Instead it turned out to be a freaky experience according to Allan. A weird gathering of memorabilia and collectible material attending by the outlandish fans of cult TV shows and films. "I was landed with Adam West who had once been Batman and a girl called Tanya from the Angels television series. She said I was a cuddly little thing, cheeky cow." The two-day event was held in a Manhattan hotel in Newark just outside New York and Allan was agog to discover that he and Best were there just to sign autographs of old photographs, along with the likes of Tracy Scoggins from Babylon 5 and the one time 'Man From Uncle', Robert Vaughan. "Me and Pete were doing what was called the Beatles segment and the organisers had all these dickheads lined up to buy pictures that we were signing. The guy from Batman is now a fat, bald fart of fifty odd and he was charging US$30 for a crap black and white photo of himself in the gear. Bizarre wasn't in it. "These people had hundreds of copies of the original photo of me and the Beatles on our way to Hamburg, the one with Lennon missing cause he was in a sulk as everyone wrongly thinks; and the punters were forking out US$20 a pitch. I was amazed. "But I didn't really give a toss as I was getting a US$1,000 fee, my air fare and accommodation and bit of commission from the sales. I was expected to give a short talk but that only lasted ten minutes. "I turned round at one point and there was Pete furiously signing his name on some obscure bloody photo while all these weirdly dressed geezers pushed and shoved to get to the front of the queue. "I was fizzing a bit because I had carted along a box of my CDs of recollections but the bleeding organisers wouldn't let me sell them because they weren't getting a cut. "But I was back in my favourite city and all expenses paid, so what the hell I was determined to enjoy every minute. "And I was also keen to check on the nine acorns I had planted fifteen years or so ago in the Strawberry Fields garden in Central Park, over the way from the Dakotas. I'd told Yoko once that I'd actually got them from Strawberry Field in Liverpool but that was a fib. "I'd picked them in Sefton Park, the sprawling, fabulous municipal park stuffed with exotic flora and fauna that should be one of the city's pride and joys. Stuart Sutcliffe had been brought up on the fringes of that park and it had probably been his playground. And I know that John's dad met Julia there while he was strolling around the lake. I'd never been back to Central Park since and just wondered if this little copse of English oaks had sprung up. "After this crazy collectibles crap was over I decided to hang around New York for a week and get a feel for the vibes as people were still affected by the attack on the Twin Towers. And there were friends I wanted to touch base with, such as Yoko again. "On the off chance I made my way to Yoko's neck of the woods and had a quick wander and a glance around the garden of remembrance to Lennon. But there wasn't an oak in site, sapling or mature. Ah, well, the intention was good. "Stuffing my hands deep in my pockets I strolled in the reception area of the Dakotas and casually broke the ice with the po-faced security bod behind the desk. 'Hello, mate. I'm a friend of Yoko over from Liverpool in England. Can you phone her please and tell her Allan Williams is down stairs.' The usual routine. Okay? With a frosty stare he replied: 'No sir, I can't do that. You'll have to put it in writing.' "I look at him as though he's the Jolly Green Giant and say: 'Hey listen, I've come all the way from Liverpool for a personal visit. I could have written to her from there if I'd just wanted to send a greeting card. I'm here in the flesh, mate. Give her a bell, will you.' "I like to think that my raunchy, devil may care approach unnerved him but not a muscle twitched. He just pushed a writing pad towards me. Sighing, I set to penning Yoko a bleeding letter yards

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from her home. "As I'm wondering just how to word it that I am downstairs, Yoko comes unexpectedly swinging right out of the main doors heading for the exit. Startled, she suddenly recognises me and cries out: 'Allan? It is you. What are you doing here?' Surprised and never one to mince words, she began to berate him for not making an appointment. Unabashed, Williams grinned at her and shrugged, explaining he'd only been in town for a few days with Pete Best, and then adding superfluously that he was - you know Yoko - the drummer ousted from the Beatles so that Ringo Starr could get the glory. 'Yes, of course I know Pete/ she said her eyes twinkling, and her features softened as Allan patiently explained the situation. 'Allan, you are very naughty. Why didn't you phone me first? Next time give me a call and we can fix something up. Right now I'm running twenty minutes late for an appointment. I held out my hands and said, 'Oh, sorry Yoko but I'm only in this part of town for the day and just didn't have a chance to ring'. I didn't tell her I'd lost the number, though. 'But it doesn't matter you are obviously busy; I'll maybe see you when you are next in Liverpool. "She smiled and said, 'Yes, of course. So sorry I have to dash, here's my car now.' And with that she was gone. Before I wandered out of the Dakotas, though, I gave the bossy boots security guy a bit of lip and told him he was a dip shit. Then I walked speedily towards the front and out into the street, chuckling but a little upset that once again I had missed Yoko. "Ah but New York was mine and I decided to take full advantage. Hey, I thought, I'll smooch on over to Broadway and take in a show. Wouldn't you know it, but the bloody musicians were on strike. "I hiked it around the corner and managed to get a ticket for Cabaret but was a little taken aback to find it cost me US$20. I'm not used to paying for theatre tickets, you see. "A few says later I fancied seeing Othello at the New York Metropolitan Opera House - remember I've always liked opera - but the only tickets left were US$20 again; and described as restricted view. In this distinguished theatre that meant I was stuck high up in the 'gods' and the performers were the size of ants. "And sure it was a restricted view. I could only see half the stage from behind a large pillar. But the sound was good at least. "As I was bumbling around I naturally called into a little pub off Broadway and got chatting to the owners, as is my way. Shortly he called me over and said that there was a guy who wanted to talk to me. I was baffled. I didn't know that many people in New York. His name was Milo and he was one of Elvis Costello's roadies. 'Hi Allan, you don't probably remember but we met a few times in Liverpool and I know you know Elvis.' Well I did 'cause Costello was a Scouser and his dad used to sing with the Joe Loss Orchestra. He saw I was puzzled, though. 'Look, Elvis is hosting the David Letterman Late Night Show on the telly tonight. Letterman's got shingles. Do you fancy coming along? I can get you in.' "I had nothing else planned and tagged along to the studio. It was brilliant. I was in the sound box with Milo and there was Elvis giving it the bifters on this American talk show. Unfortunately I didn't get to meet him as he was whisked off later before I had time to whistle his name. Still, I had to chuckle. Wherever I go things do happen. As he is always the first to agree, a lot of the time they go wrong. The day before he is due to fly back to Britain Allan is stuffing his dirty laundry and bits and bobs into a combination of suitcase and plastic bags; his preferred method of packing. "I paused for a moment and started to search my pockets frantically. Bloody hell, I couldn't find my passport or my health security pass, or my air ticket. I'm walking around the hotel room thinking this is gonna take hours to sort out. "At my wits end I head off onto the streets and stop the first policeman I see, a burly New York cop. 'Excuse me, I've got a problem. I've lost my passport and I'm leaving tomorrow. Can you tell me where the British Embassy is?'

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"He was very kind and in a slow drawl said: 'Sure, sir but if you follow me and spare twenty minutes of your time I'd like you to make a statement. Then we can get this sorted out.' "So, I'm taken to this New York transport police cop shop under Grand Central Station. As we are heading there he is making polite conversation and asked me what I was doing in New York first. "The moment I tell him he blurts out breathlessly: 'Oh, can I have your autograph sir.' "Impatiently I thought, not now old son. What about me bloody passport. But he persisted and I was resigned to all the nonsense again. No wonder stars get screwed up. Then, grinning broadly, this cop adds: 'May I also have your photograph, sir?' "I hand him the photograph of me at the Arnhem cemetery with the Beatles and he looked confused but took it gratefully and then grips my shoulder and says, Hey, my boss is coming in and he's a real Beatles fan, more than me. Lieutenant Scott. He'll just eat ya, sir.' "By that time we had arrived at this cop station and I was just going with the flow. In walked Lieutenant Scott who confirms what his pal had said, 'Yes, suh, I am the biggest Beatles fan in the whole of d' New York police department. Can I have my photograph with you suh? He pleaded. Yeh, no problem, I said thinking that once again I was embroiled in a wheeze. "Point is, normally when I get picked up by the cops I'm hurled into Cheapside (prison cells) as a drunk. Here I am being photographed with them, and centre stage. My reverie was interrupted by another request: 'Would you mind sir? This is for my wife.' Then I was hustled around the police station and they were virtually queuing up to get my autograph. "This lieutenant geezer eventually twigs that I am getting nervous about going home to England and pats me on the shoulder reassuringly. 'I have a nephew who works for the British Embassy; he's from Scotland, sir. He can expedite this for you.' "Well I was fully aware that on a Saturday the Embassy was closed but I hear him talking to someone and say: 'Hey, I got this Beatles manager here and he's lost his passport. Can you expedite this for us right away?' "That seemed to do the trick and the person agreed, suggesting that they send me over there and they'd provide me with an emergency exit passport. Then in a surreal exchange this lieutenant feller says, 'Sir Can I offer you my hat? And proceeds to present me - as a gift - with his baseball hat with the famous NYPD logo emblazoned on it. I was nonplussed and he just plonked it on my head. "It was all getting a bit heavy so I ask for directions to the British Embassy. 'Well...huh...well what the hell, sir. Would you like transport, sir? IF you can wait ten minutes there's a change of shift and I can help you.' "I was staggered and then there was a mad rush to be a part of this action and the guy who first brought me in asks if he can drive me there. Sure, I say nonchalantly. 'Hey, sir, do you know New York at all? How about a little tour?' By this time if they had offered me a job as fucking Chief of Police I wouldn't have been surprised. "Next thing I know I'm being driven all round New York for the whole of the afternoon in a squad car, and every now and then for my benefit this cop lets rip with the siren and the lights. Wow. "It did become a bit embarrassing as every time we stopped at a traffic light people were staring in at me as though I was a criminal," Allan is almost in hysterics of laughter at this memory. "We get to the embassy and the cops - you see three of them had piled in the car with me - ask can they come in and wait. They wanted to give me a lift back to the hotel. I was thinking, what about all the bloody criminals in New York? "The embassy bloke - the lieutenant's nephew - is brilliant and explains that it will cost me US$54 for the exit permit to get home but he could do almost right away, perhaps an hour or so. Absolutely, I tell him, most impressed. "Beaming the three cops huddle around me and the one I'd first stopped in the street says, 'Well we can't desert you now, sir. Do you fancy having a further look around New York? "Would I? Brilliant. All the troubles in the world and I'm fucking joy riding around New York with the cops. It was a grand sightseeing tour: Manhattan, Broad way... you name it they took me there. "We eventually wind up back at the Embassy, I pick up my exit visa and the cops give me a ride

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back to the hotel where I hand over a couple of my CDs and more photographs. They were well chuffed, and so was I. "Naturally there is a sting in the tail. I'm busy hurling things into my suitcase and just kick over this plastic bag full of Beatles memorabilia junk. As it tips over, out fall my passport and the air ticket. I couldn't believe it. "So I quickly put a call into the Embassy and catch the lieutenant's nephew before he finally knocks off for the weekend. He is as nice as pie and confirms that he will cancel the wire making my passport null and void and it will all be fine once back in the UK. "And we'll just cancel the exit visa, sir. Don't worry." "Hmm, I mused wondering about the US$54 dollars that I'd forked out for this useless bit of paper. Any chance of a refund I ask cheekily. "I'm sorry sir, that's non refundable/ he said with a light laugh. And I had to laugh too. It may well have cost me US$54 dollars but what a fantastic day out. And I kept the exit visa as a memento along with the baseball hat." And it certainly seems that keeping the old pals act going with Yoko in New York hasn't done Allan any harm and she is plainly quite fond of him, rogue or otherwise. Less than two weeks after he'd returned home - when he was soon proudly strutting around the Poste House pub showing off his new NYPD cap - Allan was 'gob smacked' to receive an invitation from Yoko - postmarked New York - to join her for a special private lunch in Liverpool's glittering, chandelier strewn Town Hall. She was due back in the birthplace of John Lennon to graciously hand over his former family home 'Mendips' to the English National Trust as an official heritage centre for Beatles fans; to become a part of the seemingly never ending worldwide pilgrimages to the city that spawned her late husband's band. "Meeting her when I was in New York after that memorabilia event with Pete Best must have triggered it all off and she must have written the invite the next day. She's a good old stick really," grinned Allan. "There it was, a gold embossed invitation to the Town Hall to join the Lord Mayor of Liverpool and council leader Mike Storey with Yoko as guest of honour. Mind you, I suspected the spree would be crammed with the usual straggle of liggers and hangers on. That's Liverpool for ya. "Julia Lennon was there, of course quite rightly and a few of the Lennon family whom I've never met before. But I was chuffed to find that none of the old Mersey Beat scene were invited, none of yer Sam Leaches and that bunch; ah, I'm only joking. "It was just good me from the good old days and basically - he grins impishly - well I suppose because I am about all that's left of the 'official' crew," and he laughs uproariously. "It was an extremely pleasant lunch in one of the grand banqueting suites only yards from where the Beatles themselves had a town hall reception back in 1964. I was sitting at a table with Yoko's lawyer and she was seated next to the Lord Mayor and Mike Storey. I could hear her telling everyone how much she loved Liverpool. "She stood up and made a short speech explaining that she believed passionately that Mendips should belong to the English Heritage Board, because that's where John Lennon's roots where and where he learned to play guitar. It was a warm-hearted speech." Allan is clearly very fond of Yoko and confides: "What that boorish gaggle of worldwide gaggle whiners who persist in slagging her off don't know is that she's donated a lot of money to Liverpool University and the Art School where Lennon had mucked around with Stuart Sutcliffe as lads. She's a real good egg." Indeed Yoko received an honorary degree from Liverpool University in the summer of 2001 in recognition of her lifelong devotion to art. It was also a thank you for her ongoing support towards the John Lennon Memorial Scholarships which she set up in 1991 as a trust fund to enable financially strapped students to continue their studies. "I was told quietly that she doesn't lash out the cash but offers support in kind; you know if they want a piece of equipment she buys it. I feel that poor woman has been much maligned and badmouthed by people who don't know her. "After we'd all finished stuffing our faces the plan was that everyone would decamp to John's

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former home in south Liverpool for a tour. The official handing over ceremony wasn't until the following day and Yoko was slated to turn up for that. "We were all wandering around this semi-detached house when I spied Yoko stepping out of a car. "Hello, Yoko, I called out. I thought it was your go tomorrow," I quipped. She laughed and said she felt it would have been very rude to the Lennon family if she hadn't come to see them at the house. "She was very friendly with me and she agreed I could have my photo taken with her saying I'd been very supportive of her. "Then after we'd had this little love in, this lawyer guy in her party turned a bit snotty and turned on me and the photographer - ironically it was the same Terry Mealey bloke I'd bumped into in Leningrad at a Beatles convention all those years ago, remember? "Rather aggressively he collared us to warn that the picture wasn't to be hawked around all over the place. "If we find its been published anywhere without our permission, we'll take action and sue you," he growled. "He almost spoiled what had been so far a great day. What a horrible git, I thought, and there's Yoko so lovely. He didn't realise how lucky he was. If I'd had a drink or two, I might well have laid into him and told him to get stuffed, but I was on my best behaviour". Allan can be forgiven for wearing rose-tinted spectacles where Yoko is concerned because at 73 he endorses her own devil may care attitude as she 'cocks a snook' at the passing of the years, always prepared to tackle another challenge. On the eve of her momentous 70th birthday in February (2003), John Lennon was also probably roaring his head off with glee as Yoko released what was tipped for a dance floor smash hit with a gutsy new version of his last ever song. Contemptuous of her venerable age Yoko teamed up with the Pet Shop Boys and the celebrated if wacko American disc jockey Danny Tenaglia to perform Walking on Thin Ice, the song Lennon was working on the night he was murdered by Mark Chapman in December 1980. That first public airing saw her link up with Neil Tennant and Chris Lowe - who insist they have admired her work for years - to perform the 'underground' dance style track at New York's psychedelic Arc Club where Tenaglia spins the labels and talks the talk. Yoko first put out the song only two months after Lennon's death but it struggled to reach number 35 in the UK charts. In some circles she is credited with having an influence over several post-punk bands, such as Public Image Limited, although her abrasive, atonal sound is reckoned by others to be more in the experimental vein. She affects to not give a fig for the critics, convinced that she is capable of turning out traditional pop and rock music with great aplomb, albeit in her trademark shrill voice. This conviction of her superiority most probably stems from her background in Japan where she was born on a snowy February morning at her great-grandmother's palatial estate just outside Tokyo, within spitting distance, it seems, of the Emperor's compound. Indeed, Yoko's paternal great-grandfather was the descendant of a 9th century emperor and reportedly played a part in overthrowing the mighty Shogunate system in Japan. Others, though, have fallen under her spell and Tenaglia - reckoned to be a right little rebel amongst the 'it' crowd in the Apple - with his pal Felix Da Housecast - willingly remixed that original track for Yoko. Despite Allan's regular 'heroinegrams' Yoko is never one to accommodate modesty and was quick off the mark to reveal she'd been swamped with offers to perform at British electro clubs such as Nag, Nag, Nag and The Cock in London. And to mark his mother's success and birthday son Sean booked the mid town New York exotic Oriental hotspot Mr Chow's for a lavish bash with two hundred of her chums, including his party time actress girlfriend, the peculiarly tagged Bijou. Yoko still carts around like a yoke the tag as 'the woman who broke up the Beatles', although it is a tad unfair. Even so, she protects Lennon's estate and inheritance like a feisty female version of the terrifying Shogun warriors her old great granpaw supposedly sent packing.

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She bought the house at 251 Menlove Avenue in Liverpool - where Aunt Mimi raised the young Lennon - in the same week in March 2001 that she was in town to rename Liverpool Airport John Lennon International Airport. She then donated the small semi-detached house to a delighted and grateful National Trust. As she tucked into Oriental delicacies in Mr Chow's with friends and family, Allan sent her a personal message from Liverpool: "I just want to welcome Yoko to the 70 Club," he chortled, his own 73rd birthday falling just three days later. It was most unlikely, though, that Paul McCartney would have sent a cake and younger brother Mike retains the family reticence about Lennon's widow and commented: "Yoko's 70th birthday? Is it? I haven't seen her for millions of years. "I don't know the lady and you'd have to ask our kid for his own views," he added diplomatically, but forgot to wish her Happy Birthday anyway. In her usual fashion Yoko continues to defy her lampooners. No doubt John Lennon - the undisputed love of her life - would be extremely proud. "I think she's handled all the flak with dignity and has a lot going for her," said Allan, loyally sticking to his guns and defending the wife of the Beatle he reckoned the most crass of them all. C'est la vie. "Oh Yeh, I was gonna tell you about another memorable screw up involving a Beatles convention and how me being a great celebrity figure doesn't add up. This is one of the better tales of disaster and I don't mind telling this against myself, as if I did about any of them. "You remember those memorabilia dealers I'd struck up a friendship with way back in Boston at the time of my mugging? Yikes, I thought I'd really struck pay dirt with them. But sure enough they also turned bandit on me. "It all began good naturedly - and naturally enough - over a couple of drinks at the Boston festival when I found myself getting hammered until the dawn cracked with this couple of guys in particular. They had latched onto me and we partied like maniacs, forging that schmaltzy, hailfellow drinking buddy pals act. "One of them agreed with me that the Boston gig was just grim. I can't remember their names now but as we were getting blitzed he told me how they were planning a really huge convention the following year in the New York area. I think this might have been around 1978/79, but I'm a bit vague on dates really. 'Look, Allan/ he confided, 'This is gonna be the biggest and best Beatles event ever in America. One goddam hugely successful money making project.' He told me they were booking the prestigious Staten Hilton Hotel opposite Grand Central Station in Manhattan as the main festival centre. Wow, I thought, it is big. 'Look, Allan we like you. We know you could be a great attraction at our convention. But we don't just want to pay you a fee. We want you to be a partner in it so that you'll make a few bucks as well. And, sure as hell, we'll also pay for you to get there and give you a fee and all expenses on top. How does that sound? Please, please say you will do it.' "Right on, I thought at the time, most certainly sonny Jim. No proble-mo, matey, I mused falling back onto my fractured Spanish lingo. The idea was we would split the profits fifty fifty. I reckoned I'd be up to my neck in dollars after this little venture. And who knows where it could lead. It looked like my luck was turning, again. "The plan was I went there two days ahead of the event to promote it on television and radio and the like. That went like a dream and I was a big hit over the airwaves, if I do say so myself. "When I finally get to the venue on the Saturday - the first night - it was packed solid and the atmosphere was fizzing. Hey ho, cracked it here. This will do me. This is a winner for sure. I was slugging back the celebration champagne and vodka in the fashion I fondly imagined I would be able to settle into permanently after we'd counted the takings from this grand shebang." Sadly, Allan's hopes of riches and latter day glory hit the skids the very next morning as he was shaking off the vodka high. It was the Sunday and the second day of the convention. Allan was up like a lark - he doesn't suffer hangovers oddly and was out and about whistling in the fresh, sunny air ready to cash in later that day. "I sauntered around to the centre hoping to touch base with my partners and do a quick assessment

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of the previous day and draw up out plans for the final few hours. But I couldn't find them anywhere. I was baffled and asked around but it was just the fans on the door taking the money. No one had a clue where they'd gone. I was getting might suspicious. "Sure enough, hadn't they checked out of the hotel the previous night as I was getting stuck into the vodka and champagne? They'd done a runner with the money. Zapped off with all of the takings, apart from the few lousy bucks that were due in that final day. "I was thunderstruck. You bet I was. Harsh reality dawned on me with a horrible clunk - Christ I have spent half my life listening to the sound of that clunking sound. It dawned on me that this also meant they obviously hadn't even paid the hotel bill. I mean they were hardly likely to, eh? "How the hell am I going to get out of this, I wondered I wasn't even supposed to be in America working, I didn't have a work permit although I don't suppose I needed one as a guest. But I didn't know that at the time and I thought I'd be in heap big trouble. "And even so I could've got landed with the whole bill. It was literally thousands and thousands. I barely had a bean in my pocket. I was desperate to figure out how I was going to get out of the hotel without being spotted. This could be prison. "I was wandering around in a semi-daze trying to avoid people I knew when I found out there was a luggage room where the suitcases were stored. Phew, this could be my lucky break, so to speak. I know it sounds crazy and childish but I had no choice. I didn't have the money to pay the bloody bill and my name was on the organiser's list. I had to do a runner as well, but empty-handed, not like my erstwhile business chums. "I gathered a few of my belongings and snuck down to the lobby and past the hall porter. Crouching down I had to duck under the counter and sneak through the luggage room shuffling along on my hands and knees. It was quite degrading really but must have looked a really funny a spectacle. Can you imagine the fuss if I'd have been caught, especially with me the ex-manager of the Beatles. "Now, every time I got to New York I just have to go and take a peek at that luggage room in the Hilton. It always makes me laugh, because it leads straight into the side street. I've often wondered if I was the only bastard to do a shifty-arsed get away through that escape hatch. "But there it was again, me saddled with another Beatles related disaster. I never got paid for that gig either. And to cap it all I'd paid for my own flight and expenses, expecting to be generously reimbursed by the lads after the convention. But those fair weather mates had buggered off with everything. I've never heard a word from them or about them since. Good riddance, I say.

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13 -Sure the two surviving Beatles are my buddies, I hope... although Paul McCartney might argue differently after the 'Leather Trousers' fiasco There was a sulphurous whiff of hypocritical cant wafting in from the camp of the chattering classes about Paul McCartney's recent attempts to rewrite history and have his name listed first on a number of the songs 'jointly' composed with Lennon. Some reckoned he was merely pandering to an unnecessary ego trip; others were more magnanimous. He certainly had a point over Yesterday, at the very least as Lennon had little if no input into that track. Sir Paul stirred up a hornet's nest when he asked Yoko Ono if he could credit his name first on Yesterday during the production of the Beatles Anthology album. She refused yet subsequently all 20 Beatles songs appearing on McCartney's then new live album Back in the US were reversed to McCartney- Lennon. Yoko was up for taking legal action. At the risk of ructions at the whisper of such a heresy amongst Lennon's disciples, Allan Williams postulates that McCartney is probably a better all round lyricist than their hero. " And he certainly has an ear for a lighter, catchier tune. I doubt if anybody gives a tinker's cuss what I think but the truth is that after forty years it doesn't really matter whether its Lennon and McCartney or vice versa. It's nitpicking. "They were - and are - just great songs. I doubt if a change of emphasis on names will sell any more. I don't think Paul did himself any favours. It wasn't a good public relations strategy. Now McCartney has conceded and is resigned to letting the original credits remain on any future recordings. I'm happy with the way it is and always has been/ he said. 'Lennon and McCartney is still the rock 'n' roll trademark and I'm happy to be a part of it - in the order that it has always been.' "I was glad really because he was making an ass of himself. Odd really, because when he started off, when I first knew him, he was if anything else good at public relations. I've always maintained that if he hadn't been a musician or a Beatle he would've made a superb PR man. Lennon could and would cause mayhem without thinking but Paul was always the one to pour oil on troubled waters. McCartney must have picked up on the vibes. On the day he wound up his epic world tour with a sell out - and emotional - concert in Liverpool at the Kings Dock on the banks of the Mersey, he finally brought the feud to a halt. He declared that he was, in effect, happy to 'play second fiddle' to John Lennon to ensure that the Beatles' rock 'n' roll signature trademark -ranked alongside Gilbert and Sullivan for musical partnerships - would be maintained in its recognised format. Allan was sat in the audience of 35,000 jubilant fans as 'Came Home' to Liverpool and rocked the night away at a specially built stadium on the banks of the River Mersey, only days before Liverpool was chosen to wear the coveted crown of European Capital of Culture for 2008. He admits that a few tears came to his eye. For all his bravado, Allan can be sensitive and who wouldn't feel the mood and the atmosphere a little overpowering as one of the last of the Beatles performed a huge concert, maybe even his last, in the very town where Allan got them a job backing a strip act hired by him and his pal Harold Phillips, the legendary Lord. Woodbine, who was also on the first Hamburg excursion. "I've often said I have no regrets and if the lads hadn't learned their trade in Hamburg there probably wouldn't have been any Beatles. And no mega star Paul McCartney. "So, yeh, I was feeling a bit choked and left before the end. I missed the firework display but the show was still going strong. To be honest I found the crowd a bit intimidating, 35,000 people all swaying and singing. "Problem for me was that I knew the last bus for home left at 11.30pm and I reckoned there wouldn't be enough transport to cart that lot away. It'll take hours and I didn't want to walk all the way home from the Pierhead to the Dingle because it could be a bit dangerous."

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So, as Paul McCartney was hammering out a string of well-loved songs towards the end of what was an historic gig Allan Williams slipped out, quietly into the night air unnoticed by the enthusiastic fans. The pathos factor was high as Allan shuffled through the crowds, wandered out past the ranks of security guards ringing the specially erected arena and wandered off into the balmy evening to get the last bus to his empty flat. "I thought the show was tremendous, as usual. I've seen similar stuff by Paul at other places around the world. He generally sings mostly the same songs but I could see that everybody was thoroughly enjoying it. His voice is as good as ever it was, and it was all very entertaining, even if a little frog did leap in my throat when he sang She Was Just 17. "I was transported back all those years - like everyone else who was around at the time. But I was astonished at how many young people were crammed in, and all knowing these Beatles songs by heart. Some had travelled miles." In fact Allan had met up the day before with a bunch of American fans that had flown into Liverpool John Lennon Airport especially for the show. "Well, Billy Heckle had asked me if I would meet this crew who were going to do a tour around the Beatles sites in Liverpool. He seemed to think they were quite important and told me that one was a millionaire. "The head honcho was a guy called Ralph Whitworth and his wife and Wendy Whitworth Walker who turned out to be executive vice president of CNN. And even I gagged when she gave me her card and it read that she was also senior executive producer of Larry King Live, you know the biggest television show in America, I think. "They were flying in from Los Angeles and Bill wanted me to meet them at the Jacaranda and talk about the early days. It was a favour for Bill as he has remained a good pal. He thought they were coming in via Manchester and was a bit surprised to find they had this private, ten seater jet that was coming to Liverpool direct. "Frankly, though I didn't know what to expect. For the first time in ages I was also a little nervous. And I wasn't surprised when they were half an hour late. Suddenly in they troop, this gaggle of Yanks all casually dressed, wealthily scruffy if you know what I mean. You'd never have guessed in a thousand years that they were millionaires. Oh, yeh. I forgot. All eight of them were loaded. "We shook hands and I quickly thought it best to check out the lay of the land and asked rather cheekily, 'do you mind if I swear?'" Bemused but laughing the American visitors agreed it would be okay and Allan immediately responded, 'thank fucking Christ for that' which did leave them a bit open mouthed. "Well, it was a very hot and sticky day and I was flash and suited up. I was sweating like a pig because it was roasting outside. They were all relaxed in casual gear and jeans and I had a tie on! "They looked concerned and asked if I was comfortable and I replied bluntly that of course I wasn't. T'm doing this to impress you', I shouted and they chorused that I had, and that I could now take the bloody thing off. "Blow me, turns out that all eight of them are millionaires, maybe even billionaires. And there was me with about a fiver in my pocket. They were very friendly and quickly told me that they had changed hotels only that morning because of a problem and booked into the Crown Plaza hotel at the Pierhead in Liverpool. It was a bizarre tale. They were zinging mad about the first one. "Seems they had asked for a limo and private chauffeur only to be told that it wasn't part of the service and couldn't be done. They were quite pissed off - and I must say if I had their money I would have been too -and asked what kind of goddam hotel it was. They shifted lock, stock and barrel to the Crowne Plaza at the Pierhead where the terrific staff did get them a limo. "Over pints of beer, me as well as it was too early in the day for vodka, it being only noon (!) I told them the whole story how the boys and I had met when they were on the bones of their arses. And we laughed about how rich Paul is now. "I told them that I could remember him when he was poor and a skinflint. They all laughed their heads off when I told them about how he would balk at paying an extra penny for jam on his toast,

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or 'as you guys might say, jelly'. He used to shout at John Lennon, 'You must be fucking mad it's a penny more for jelly'. They thought that was hilarious and I kept them amused for a while with similar stories. And then we went to the basement and took photographs, the usual touristy thing. "Then they told me this amazing story about Paul. It appears that Ralph employed Paul McCartney about two and a half months ago to play for Wendy's birthday party. I looked amazed as he told this tale. "Seems he got in touch direct with Paul and said I want you to play for me, for my wife's birthday party, but I'm not paying. Of course, he must have known Paul. Do you reckon? Anyway it must have startled McCartney because he says he'd had to think about it. Of course, Ralph had written it off as a bad job. Next thing he gets a call from who rang him on his private mobile. He says, 'Look I've been thinking about this. I often get invited to do private parties but I've never done one even though they've offered me fabulous money. And here you are requesting the same but not prepared to pay me Okay, I'll do it.' "Ralph admits it was his turn to be startled and then McCartney added: 'But you'll have to pay the money I want to a charity' and Ralph said okay, he would give a million quid to Heather's landmine charity. That clinched the deal with Paul. "Wendy, a huge fan of Paul McCartney by the way, arrives home this evening to get the shock of her life. She thinks it's just a bash with 250 of her mates - as you would - when she is astonished to see our there with a full band. He played for an hour. "What a cracking tale, I told them. By then it was getting on and they were off to the Casbah Club to have a peek and were a little upset to find that neither Pete Best nor his brother Roag would be there. They were in Switzerland on a gig. "Odd but I've noticed that about Pete. Whenever, there is anything big like this McCartney concert or something connected to the Beatles in Liverpool he clears off. Its obviously too painful, as it was for me. I don't blame him. For weeks leading up to the Kings Dock show everyone I met would smirk and say, 'Ha, bet you've got your free ticket nice and safe. I didn't even have a ticket. I couldn't afford that amount of money; the cheapest were 30 or 40. "It was only because of Billy Heckle that I got in although Alex from the Liverpool band Up and Running had also offered me a ticket. There was certainly nothing on offer from McCartney's team. I also felt sorry for Freda Kelly who'd been their original fan club leader for years. I heard that she'd asked Geoff Baker if there was any chance of a ticket. "But Baker - McCartney's right hand man and keeper of the largesse -obviously didn't think that all those years flogging away on behalf of the Beatles mattered a jot. He turned her down. I did hear she'd got a ticket eventually but I don't know how. Yeh, all of us from the old days don't get a look in now. "Anyway, back to the big buck millionaires who wanted me to go to the Casbah with them. I declined, as I didn't want to appear like a ligger. But I did ask if I could see their plane. Sure thing they said, and so the next day - the day of the concert -1 meet them in the morning at the Crowne Plaza and we all pile into these taxis. "Turns out their chief pilot - Larry E. Beck - is an old school pal of Ralph and told me confidentially that out of all the class he was the one that no one reckoned would make anything of his life. What a turn up. We bundle down to the airport to this private hangar where they'd parked this lovely plane. It was the very one Ralph had sent to pick up McCartney for the birthday gig. Naturally I had my photograph taken with it and I asked if there was a chance of a glass of wine. Just to look the part, you understand. "They did invite me to join them after the concert and fly to Luton for another party but I knew it would be late and didn't fancy being stuck in Luton in the middle of nowhere and then when they left for America I'd have to make my way to London for a train home to Liverpool. No thanks. Mind you if they'd asked me to go to Los Angeles I wouldn't have hesitated. 'That night I mingled with the crowds at the Kings Dock and sat with Billy Heckle. I must admit it was a good show, although I've seen similar before in other places when I've bumped into McCartney round the world. He sings virtually the same songs and the show doesn't change much.

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But I could see that everybody was throughout enjoying it and his voice is still as good as ever. Let's face it he is a true professional and it was very entertaining. "The only thing that upset me was when I went to buy a programme as a souvenir. I couldn't believe my ears. They wanted 15.1 thought this is a right rip off and it took my breath away. It was a standard programme, the one that he's used for all of that tour. And there was this bunch of hardfaced sons of bitches trying to sell another 30,000. And at 15 a pitch, that's the same amount of commission money Paul still owes me from the Hamburg gigs. "Ah, but in many ways it was a very emotional night for me. Bob Wooler is dead and Beryl Adams. They would've been there, I'm pretty sure of it, sitting with me. Maybe they were in spirit. On the banks of the Mersey with Paul only yards away. But now there's just me left. It was a bit weird people recognising me in the crowd and shouting over. I was signing autographs as though I was the star. "Finally, it got too much and I did feel myself getting upset. And, of course, I didn't dare miss the last bus. I just had to slip away silently as the music saturated the darkness; once again I was the Nowhere Man. "In truth, though, I always got on with Paul. Sure we've had sort of spats over the years but I liked him, still do. Like his kind comments about John over the order of names on the records, well Paul wasn't arrogant or a big head either. I had no complaints. They all blended together, even Pete Best as far as I could see, and remember I was instrumental in getting Best in the Beatles. They needed a drummer. "Oh, but I bet you don't know that probably the first 'Beatles' drummer was Paul's younger brother Mike. Yeh. When they were the Quarrymen he used to occasionally sit in hitting the beat." Mike McCartney has confirmed the truth of this, pointing out with a laugh that he had to be reminded as he'd 'forgotten'. "No, but when Pete got the job I thought that was fine. He wouldn't have been my choice but he was okay. That's why I was so surprised when he was sacked. I still can't get my head around that. Chrissakes he worked with them for two years, He did all the hard work in Hamburg and the sweaty Cavern. "When I sent the Beatles to Hamburg Pete Best was an integral part of the band, of course he was. He's on that famous photograph outside Arnhem Cemetery, the one with the carved legend in honour of the dead parachutists from that wartime blunder that reads: Their Name Liveth for Ever More'. Now it feels like a strange spiritual prediction but sadly maybe not for Pete. "When Ringo joined them he was the luckiest man in the world because honestly he's not a better drummer than Pete - and lets face facts neither of them are Art Blakey or Buddy Rich - but it was Pete Best who put the beat into the sound. "It was Pete's improvising on the drums that became known as the Mersey Beat. People say he was treated badly by McCartney but there are so many stories hanging around about that decision and we'll never know now. As the row blew up at the time I was told it was George because he was very friendly with Ringo. "Well I am inclined to go along with this Harrison line, because he was the one who came into the Blue Angel with a black eye, a bloody whopper, after being punched coming out of the Cavern by an enraged Pete Best supporter. "It was George who called me over and said in confidence: 'Look Al, will you tell Brian Epstein that we did the right thing in getting rid of Pete Best. I think he's a bit worried. But it was the best move.' And I remember he winked at that dreadful, biting pun. "Mind you I do feel a sense of guilt because I had encouraged the boys to use Ringo on drums when they made that fateful Summertime record in Hamburg. So maybe it's my entire fault. They saw how easily Ringo fitted in even then." Allan likes to think that after all the water that has surged under the bridge in torrents since, he is on friendly terms with the surviving two Beatles and can't recall ever having a cross word with George Harrison. There have been memorable reunions, though, and a few that Allan prefers to gloss over.

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"I was once in Philadelphia when Paul was hurtling around doing his Wings Across America tour around 1977 or 78 - and they were appearing at the massive ice rink in the city. "This was that dreadful rain sodden Beatles festival that was a waste of space. I doubt if Paul even knew it was taking place. The promoters came to me with a couple of tickets for the show saying how marvellous it would be for me to meet him again. "Of course I wasn't that stupid. They were the ones who wanted to meet him and assumed that I still had access. I didn't enlighten them in the beginning because I hadn't seen Paul play live for a very long time. "They were obviously desperate and pleaded with me to try and get them an introduction. I was chary of this because there must have been about 15,000 people in the audience - small fry now when you consider Paul's mega gigs around the world. "The concert wraps up and Paul saunters around the stage introducing the band because for the first time he's augmented the Wings sound with a brass section. "My ears pricked up when I heard him shout: 'From the 'Pool, Howard Casey/ Aye, aye, I know that fellow's face, surely its Howie Casey from the old Seniors. Nah, Howie, a fabulous saxophone player, was as bald as a bat but it turns out he was wearing a toupe. Christ it was Howie, me old mate. "I had to chuckle because he was the one who went berserk when I first sent the Beatles to Hamburg. He was already there and well into lapping up the adoration game. He wrote: "Look Al, you've got a good thing going here. If you send that bloody bum group over, you're gonna louse the whole scene up." "Well, well. How times change. So I scribbled a quick note and handed it to one of the stewards marshalling the audience. It read: 'Hi, Howie. It's Allan Williams. How about that bum group now?' "Within ten minutes the steward was back and behind him was Howie, glaring at me in pretend anger. 'Hey, you little shit. I haven't got ham hands like a docker, you bastard.' I laughed recalling that in my first book that was doing the rounds then Alan Marshall had written that Howie had enormous hands. 'Look you bastard/ he said and showed them to me. Hmm. They were huge, actually. "He leaned over and chuckled: 'I never meant what I said about the Beatles, you know, Al.' I smirked back and he asked what I was doing in Philly. 'I've been talking at this crap Beatles convention and the promoters wanted me to introduce them to Paul. What's the chance?' "Howie shrugged apologetically: 'I don't get to see him much myself outside of rehearsals and on stage, even though we are from the Pool and go back a long way. But I'll talk to his manager Richard and tell him that you are here. But don't hold out any hopes, Al. "Lucky days, though, as this Richard guy appears and says: 'Paul would love to see you.. .erm, if you come with me now. I'll take you to the sort of inner sanctum', and he took my arm. "I shuffled about and explained that I had these two American promoter guys with me but he shook his head and said that nothing could be done about that. 'Paul has got the president of a recording company waiting to talk to him; he hasn't got time to meet these guys. Sorry. 'He just wants to see you, Allan, Okay, I replied but the guys were persistent and asked if they could just come and backstage and stand outside the door. 'At least we'll be closer/ Richard's eyes rose skywards but he agreed. The lads were ecstatic. "In we trundle, me a little nervous, and there's Paul with Linda. She's popping around taking photographs and I do recall she took one of me with two members of the band. I never got a copy though. "Paul was chummy and asked me what I was doing and I tell him that ironically I'm in town doing this Beatles convention. That puzzled him. 'I've got the promoters outside hoping to meet you. Any chance?' I ask. 'Not really, Al. I just wanted to see you and just have a chat for old times sake/ I must have looked crestfallen and he relents and says he can see them just for a second. "I charged outside and hustled them in but they are so overawed that they forgot to take a photograph even though they've got two cameras swinging from their wrists. It was just a cursory:

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'Alright, der', from Paul and they were back in the corridor gasping. 'Wow. Yeh. Gosh. We really did meet Paul McCartney'. "Why didn't you take a photograph to prove it, you daft gits?' I asked. 'We were so shocked it didn't occur to us. "I crept back into the room and Paul is telling me that he was doing two concerts at the Philadelphia stadium and I began to think furiously as I was gonna be in town for another three days. "Hey, Paul I've got some of your Beatles memorabilia with me. I've even got your visa when we went to Hamburg." He stared at me and said; 'I've got nothing like that. Can I see it?' 'Sure, I'll bring it over on Friday'. That was my big mistake, me showing Paul McCartney this stuff. 'Wow, that brings back memories. I've got nothing like this. Can I have it, Al? McCartney asked. "Blinking at him, and thinking that this was about all I've got to scrabble a few miserable pennies from after me giving you the break of your lives. And he wants to take it back. 'Not really, Paul, I don't think I can hand it over just like that/ I murmured. "Linda overheard this and prods him. He replies rather tartly: 'Excuse me, but it is mine, innit? It's my application. My visa/ And he turns to Linda to see if she agrees and she nods her head swiftly, exclaiming: 'Yeh. Yeh. So he keeps the document and slips it into his pocket. "I was thunderstruck. It was worth - to me - about a couple of thousand dollars, this measly scrap of paper signed by him. And he kept it. He wouldn't give it me back despite my protests. 'That taught me a valuable lesson. If I'm gonna meet a Beatle, don't show them anything. So that's why I kept his leather trousers," and with that Allan falls about in a heap laughing. "Although I've lost them now," he grins ruefully, this long disputed tale of the smelly leather trousers already legendary amongst Beatles fans worldwide. Whatever, it cost McCartney 6,000 - according to Allan, although others believe it was only 3,000 - when the Master of the Rolls from Britain's Court of Appeal threw out an injunction that was brought by the singer against Allan Williams to prevent him auctioning the trousers at the famous Sotheby's in London. These were the black leathers trousers that had allegedly worn back in the steamy days of Hamburg and the Cavern, much like the other Beatles who hadn't shed their tough Teddy Boy' image by then. A bitter war of words had erupted when McCartney insisted - and still does, come to that - the trousers were not his. He didn't want fans ripped off and warned them not to be fooled. At the time they were expected to raise around 1,000; today they'd probably haul in twenty times that amount, if genuine. Allan has argued consistently that he knew they were McCartney's right from the start after acquiring them from the Liverpool singer Faron - from Faron's Flamingoes, rated one of the top Merseybeat bands of their day. Faron picked them up after Paul left them in a roadside cafe. "And, do you know folks that I'd actually loaned Paul the money to buy them in the first place. He conveniently forgot that, so I felt that he owed me," was Allan's other plea of mitigation. It convinced the judge, anyway "Whatever Paul might say the truth can't be disputed. Faron told me that after a late gig they were all tucking into a nosh in Joe's Cafe, a rough and ready but now famous in its own cutlery all night eatery on Liverpool's Dock Road. "One of the sad little tricks the groups would play on each other was that they'd all run out without paying and the last one had to sort out the bill. "This particular night Brian Epstein was with them - he was the Beatles manager by then - and he was already chaffing at their scruffy appearance. He didn't want them turned out like Gene Vincent look-alikes, he chided. He told them - in that greasy spoon caff - that the leather gear had to go. The boys weren't that bothered and Paul had the trousers in a carrier bag. "The grub was finished and with a yell they all sprinted for the door -Epstein included, because he thought it a grand little scam - leaving Faron - whose real name was Bill Ruffley - stumbling along last and thus picking up the tab. "But the canny bastard had spotted Paul's leather trousers, snaffled them and actually wore them himself on stage for about ten years, always boasting that they had belonged to Paul.

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"We used to laugh about them and Faron then offered me a deal. He knew that I had a smashing photograph of him playing with McCartney and wanted it badly. He didn't give a toss about the trousers and so we swapped. He even gave me a letter confirming the whole story about how he got them. "I was quite chuffed and being short of a few bob I reckoned I should chance my arm at Sotheby's, or rather the trousers that had been wrapped slickly around Paul McCartney's legs. "Next thing I know he's taken legal action to stop me. He was virtually accusing me of stealing the trousers. When I proved they belonged to me he wisecracked that they weren't his anyway and I was trying to pass them of illegally. I was getting into deep mire so I contacted Liverpool solicitor Rex Makin and he steamrollered into action." Makin - who cuts a dash as one of Liverpool's most colourful and charismatic legal eagles - recalls that at first McCartney did claim they were his trousers and didn't want them being disposed of. 'Frankly I thought this rather mean because whatever people might think of Allan Williams, Paul McCartney even then was worth hundreds of millions and had a constant income. Williams didn't,' commented Mr Makin. 'I can only deal with the facts and it doesn't matter at all whether they were his trousers or not. McCartney endorsed their authenticity by that very injunction, thus giving the trousers a more sacrosanct veneer than perhaps they were entitled to. 'Of course McCartney was also supposed to be 'dead nuts' on animal rights but he wasn't that concerned about a human animal and his financial predicament that caused him to put these trousers in for sale. 'Anyway he did nothing about it after that initial injunction and we waited our time. Then, acting for Allan Williams, in due course after McCartney had not followed up his gagging procedure we took out an application to dismiss his claim for want of prosecution.' The trousers meanwhile had been locked away in Sotheby's vaults and the case rolled on for more than a decade until in the late summer of 1995 the exasperated judge declared that no one could take it seriously. McCartney didn't show at the hearing and wasn't represented either. 'There isn't one law for the rich and one for the poor, so I am closing this case. The trousers must be returned to Allan Williams within two weeks," the Master of the Rolls intoned. 'Yes, McCartney couldn't answer our application and it was so adjudicated and he had to pay the costs, which I estimate where something around 3,000/ commented Rex Makin, who was once asked by Brian Epstein - his neighbour in a south Liverpool suburb - to draw up a water tight contract for him to manage the Beatles. 'I told him there was no such thing and he went elsewhere. 'Brian Epstein lived next door to me on Queen's Drive and I'd seen him through a variety of vicissitudes and when he was an unhappy fellow at NEMS he used to come in to flog LPs, which were then the vogue. He kept me up to date with all of his activities, which included the discovery of the group that he had discovered. They were going to break the mould he predicted. 'Well, I thought he was potty (crazy) and he wanted me to draw up what was known as an unbreakable contract. Well there isn't such s thing as an unbreakable contract, people break contracts all the time. 'I told him that he should go to the legal stationers or the music trade people and get a ready made contract off the shelf. He didn't listen to me and went to another solicitor in Liverpool.' Yet when Epstein died Makin - who also claims to have coined the term 'Beatlemania' reveals that NEMS Enterprises, the then Beatles' management company, was left with a dilemma. Clive Epstein insisted they needed a nominee member of the Board, or as Makin prefers to regard it, 'a stooge'. 'They - the 'Boys' - thought I was acceptable, so I agreed, attending no meetings, did no work and when the time arrived I was asked to resign. In return I got a nominal sum for my services or rather the lack of them/ explains Makin with his artful cackle echoing around his chambers in Liverpool's Whitechapel, ironically almost now above the former NEMS empire. The leather trousers story continued to amuse Makin for months, especially after the court case when McCartney's spokesman Geoff Baker rubbished the claim and told how angry Paul was at the

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situation. 'They are categorically not his. For a start they are six inches too short for Paul and he tried them on to prove it/ Baker railed on McCartney's behalf, pleading that his boss didn't want a fan to pay out hard-earned money for something they think is a piece of rare memorabilia which wasn't, in both their opinions. Unruffled, Allan agreed they were too small - then - but explained that Faron, who was much smaller than McCartney, had told him he'd cut the trousers to make them fit. Makin continued: 'Williams got the trousers back which he then said he was going to cut up and sell in pieces, although why any lunatic would want a pair of smelly old leather trousers cut up because they might have encased the loins and legs of Paul McCartney is beyond comprehension. 'But I did think that Allan Williams was unlucky to have endured that strain and trouble because he didn't have the where-with-all to fight McCartney. 'Then again, I think the attitude of all the Beatles towards those who were their progenitors and protagonists - and I include Allan Williams in this category - in the early days has been less than grateful; as has been their attitude to the city of Liverpool.' In yet another delightful twist - confirming Liverpool's small village status - purely by coincidence the daughter of one of Makin's team of solicitors, Martin Green, ended up marrying Allan's son Justin. Dannie and Justin now have two children making Allan that proud grandpa. But the saga of the leather trousers didn't end there. Oh dearie, no. Allan continued to cart them around Beatles conventions, cheekily charging fans to try them on. Only weeks after that he 'won' the historic court case Allan was in Worcester launching a Beatles festival. Displaying his usual braggadocio and sheer impertinence Allan called an impromptu press conference to show off the leather trousers. He even hired model Elena Hockham to strut around in the trousers. The story made headlines in the local papers. In that summer he was still flashing the trousers in McCartney's face, so to speak, but had told everyone that he no longer wanted to sell them. Instead he put them up for auction to try and raise 25,000 for the recently formed Liverpool based Roy Castle Lung Cancer Appeal. There was Allan, once again splashed all over the papers with another model - Suzanne Byrne - in tow, kitted out sexily in Paul's old trousers. "There was little point hiding them and I used to take them out regularly and give them a good polish. I've had a lot of fun with them," roared Allan unperturbed at the fuss he caused, as ever. Then he seemed to tire of that stunt and stuffed them in a wardrobe in his flat until, broke again, he decided a few years ago to sell them. "After the court case I was told they might have been worth ten grand but now my heart was beating fast when I heard I could ask 15,000 at a Beatles memorabilia auction in Liverpool. Naturally, I wasn't going to throw up this opportunity. It was part of my pension/' he laughed. Before he could act he was whisked into hospital for that near fatal quadruple by-pass heart surgery. Whilst Allan was under the surgeon's knife his daughter Leah, in a generous mood, cleaned out his 'disgustingly untidy' flat. Allan had been living in a rambling Victorian house that had been converted to flats, again off Lark Lane close to Liverpool's verdant Sefton Park. After his operation he had plans to move to a brighter, newer apartment close to Beryl Adams. Leah and Beryl decided they would accelerate the move whilst he was incapacitated and couldn't interfere. Trawling through her father's belongings Leah came upon the leather trousers, crumpled in a corner of the wardrobe. They looked like dirty rags and Allan admits they weren't exactly in mint condition. Convinced they were just stinking old clothes she unceremoniously pitched them into a dustbin. When he heard Allan could hardly contain his dismay, despite being seriously ill. 'T couldn't believe it. I'd had those things for years, had decided to get shut and was hoping to romp off with a cool fifteen grand. "Instead they ended up in a skip and some tramp is probably wandering around wearing Paul's old kecks (Liverpool slang for trousers). You have to laugh," he shakes his head and then affects to

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weep but its just another paragraph in a sorry saga of bad luck. Yet, there are those who say Allan has nurtured a myth about the provenance of the leather trousers, even Faron. He says that the trousers that have caused Allan so much heartache were in fact just a battered old pair of his brother Jay's leather motorcycle leggings. "For a while I did believe they were the real thing until my brother told me that the real ones had been destroyed while he was wearing them when involved in a crash on his bike." This was apparently around about the same time as McCartney started his legal tussle with Allan. "Sure, I did have them at first because Paul asked me to look after them when we were in Joe's cafe for supper one night. But they all left leaving me to pay the bill as a joke. I had my revenge by keeping the trousers. "I sold them to my brother to raise money for the group. He needed them for his bike. When I decided in 1976 to make a comeback I thought it would be a good gimmick to wear Paul's trousers and went to see Jay. "We found them in an old wardrobe and had to scrape off the green mould. What he did not tell me at the time was that the real McCartney trousers had been destroyed in that crash. He didn't think it was important. Faron thought the whole court case around the trousers crazy, especially as Sotheby's had valued the ones he'd given to Allan at 900. "Paul thought they were his and wanted them back yet all along they were just Jay's old bike gear," said Faron. Allan merely smiles and shrugs: "It's all very odd that these alternative stories keep cropping up. I'm pretty damned sure Paul McCartney wouldn't have got so het up about a pair of biker leathers. Mind you he seems to have gotten over all that argy-bargy and in the Anthology is suddenly calling me a smashing bloke, a great motivator. Life's a real wheeze and that's for sure," he chuckles aware that the Beatles Anthology recording is turning out to be the biggest selling anthology of all time, making even more millions. John Lennon's Imagine has also been voted the most popular song of all time and the CD of the Beatles number ones broke all records, storming to the top of the charts when it was released at the turn of the millennium. "Those who fondly reckoned that the Beatles' impact on the world of music was long past have been roundly disabused of that notion," comments Allan, serious for a moment. And the worldwide outpouring of grief over the sad death of George Harrison from cancer in November 2001 and the ongoing relationship between Paul McCartney and Heather exemplify that the phenomena continues unabated. When Harrison died Allan was away but on his return home found scores of messages on his answer phone from media pundits all over the world, keen for his comments and his thoughts as another Beatle passed away. "People think I must be full of rancour about screwing everything up but the honest truth is I was more interested in the clubs. When Brian took them over he did come to see me and said: 1 believe you were involved with them I want to see everybody because they've asked me to manage them and I want to know all about them...good or bad.' That's when I told him: 'Don't touch them with a fucking barge pole', and everyone knows that was my position. But I want to put the record straight here. I wasn't talking about them as musicians. I've never said anything bad about them as musicians. I just felt at the time that as persons they'd let you down. "And I feel so that in the end they did in a manner of speaking 'kill' Brian because he was disposable. Remember at one of their recordings he was there in the Apple building. I think he tried to cut in and said: 'May I suggest you do this...' "With withering contempt Lennon sarcastically turned and snarled: 'Took Brian we're the musicians just count the fucking money will yer." "Once he'd said that I knew that it was all over for Epstein and it wasn't long after that he overdosed...by accident...at least I'm still alive and bouncing around."

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He grins and then adds with a tinkling laugh: "But their original success was all thanks to me. Thanks to my vision. If it wasn't for me, they would still be stuck somewhere in Liverpool now doing dead end jobs like many of those who had their sights on fame at the same time. "They'd be sad, pathetic figures hooking into their past like a band of Peter Pans, like all the Beatles Parasites do now," mutters Allan articulately but darkly, snapping in defiance at the accepted wisdom that perhaps he's the one with egg on his face. Then, with a rasping laugh he winks. " I suppose they did have a certain something, a magic. But they were a bloody handful and I was busy doing hundreds of things like running nightclubs and generally having a great time. I couldn't really be arsed. Hey, but I did have them working in a strip club in Liverpool as well." For years Allan denied he had any proper financial interest in that club, one of the first in Liverpool, he thinks. It may come as a surprise to Paul McCartney but it transpires that Allan fibbed. "Yeh, I did have a half share in the club which was mentioned in the Beatles Anthology, if a bit disparagingly. It was supposed to be owned by Woody - the charismatic Lord Woodbine - but we'd set it up together. I couldn't tell people at the time, certainly not the Beatles who might have gone nuts and refused to play as they didn't like backing the strippers."

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14 - Showbiz courses through Allan's blood thanks to his promoter Dad, who might well have booked McCartney's father's band After the farrago over the Jacaranda musical Allan should have been j^Vshying clear of similar ventures but casually drops mentions one afternoon as he is 'sipping' a vodka and lemonade in a gloomy cubicle of his favourite haunt, the Post House pub, about his Frank Sinatra musical. "It's going to be a joint effort with journalist Phil Key from the Liverpool Daily Post who is also a fierce Frank Sinatra fan like me. It's basically about where he was born, his life and the real mind struggles he had with Ava Gardner." As Allan is waxing lyrical about the prospect of cashing in on Frank Sinatra's memory he is prodded to reality when a friendly sounding voice interrupts his reverie to mention that perhaps Sinatra associations haven't been a seam of gold so far for Allan. He winces conceding that a musical show to celebrate Frank Sinatra's life shortly after he had died was a resounding flop. It was put on rather incongruously in the lowering Lancashire town of Wigan. Allan assumed the fans of Frankie would flock to weep and dance the night away at his memory. After scouring The Stage newspaper he booked a big band called the Chris Smith String of Pearls an 18-piece outfit that couldn't be faulted musically but cost 2000 to hire. "I couldn't find a venue big enough in Liverpool where I could recoup that kind of 'dosh'. Bingo! I remembered this mate who a rather big club called Maxines in Wigan. The very place," gloated Allan, rubbing his hands in anticipation of the loot soon to be rolling in. Allan happily forked out 500 advertising the show in the local Wigan newspapers and around Lancashire and the North West of England. He even contacted the Frank Sinatra fan club and rustled up a coach load of cronies from the Poste House pub back in Liverpool who, - some admit now with hindsight - were sceptical but in awe of Allan's penchant for hare-brained schemes; they just had to see how this panned out. A few were baffled at the risk he was taking financially but he later confided that he's just won 2,500 on the National Lottery and reckoned he could capitalise on that and make stacks through the show. Unfortunately Allan hadn't done his homework. Poor old Maxines was on its last legs; the sound of tumbrels could he heard rumbling towards its luminous portals. "I should guessed when he let me have it free on a Saturday night. The warning bells should have been clanging/7 laughed Allan. 'There was more people on stage than in the audience, which in theatrical terms is usually the kiss of death. I could sense that Chris Smith and his lads were anxious and this was confirmed when I went to the toilet. "The whole orchestra trooped in behind me demanding to know if they were gonna be paid. Up against this pisser wall I had to convince them that I had indeed paid their agent. That calmed them down and I pleaded with them to get back and give it their all. "Apart from my lot from the Poste House pub, who were having a ripping time, no one else turned up. It was like the Marie Celeste of nightclubs but with a lively atmosphere rather than eerie silence. "In the end it was a fantastic night because I treated it like a private party, albeit a bloody expensive one for me." Despite his track record Allan is half convinced that he has the sharp showbiz acumen of the Liverpool born impresario Bill Kenwright - whom he knows - and that the lucky break is just around that corner. Synchronicity is Allan's stable mate. Years back when a pupil at the Liverpool Institute McCartney's old alma mater and now the Liverpool Institute for Performing Arts - Kenwright once played in a band with Stuart Slater who is today a leading commissioning editor with Richard

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Branson's Virgin Books. Slater went on to form the Mojos, a hit-making band in the late 1960s and 1970s. They were that very promising group that Allan had wanted to manage when he put on that first open air pop festival. Although trail-blazing musically that event also flopped financially. So after such a catalogue of catastrophes has Allan learned any lessons? Not on your Nellie. He went on to lose another couple of grand when he booked the trad-jazz musician Kenny Ball and his band for a gig at one of Liverpool's raucous Irish theme pubs; a popular barn of a bar run by Bob Burns a well known Liverpool publican and businessman. Again the incongruity of putting on jazz in a joint where only the feral fire of fiddles ever rent the air never struck Allan. It was another disaster. Only twenty people turned up. "When I realised that it wasn't going to plan I tried to cancel but I'd already paid half the money up front to Kenny's agent. I told him that for some inexplicable reason we hadn't sold any tickets. I told him he didn't have to pay me the cash back but asked if we could call off the show." Ball's agent was having none of this and pointed out to Allan that a few members of the band had travelled long distances, some from the Isle of Man. Kenny and his boys would play even if there were only three people present. Allan was stymied but as usual made the best of it, called all his friends down for the fun. Later they rated it highly in the lexicon of memorable Allan Williams run events. "I know the ideas are good but I just don't get the following. It should be disheartening but one day I will crack it. "I had to go with the begging bowl to Bob Burns as I'd promised Kenny Ball the balance of the cash in hand after that night's takings. Bob peeled off the 800 and there I was in this empty bar handing it over to Kenny Ball who thought it was a greet hoot." Perhaps the fact that it was a Monday night and Allan had overlooked the publicity angle didn't help. "In all the excitement I'd forgotten to print posters or advertise the show. No wonder it crashed around my ears." Indomitable as ever Allan is swayed that this planned big hitting musical about Frank Sinatra will restore his faith in a fickle public. "Both Phil Key and I reckoned there was too much in Frank's life for just one musical. It is best to cover the real love of his life, Ava Gardner: as if that wasn't a Pandora's Box of tricks in itself. "I've kept my part of the bargain and handed over the raw research part of the work so that Philip can knock the script together. We'll soon be all systems go. "We've already cast this remarkable Liverpool Sinatra look alike David Knopov in the lead. He does a Frankie imitation in the clubs and is brilliant. We don't have a title yet and I don't think there's any problem with the music as Frank wasn't a composer, others wrote his songs," declares Allan, although with respect to him he might find a few hurdles pitched his way in that regard. "I was inspired to write the musical by his death," he chuckles at this blunt comment, revealing that he was weaned on Sinatra and dance bands thanks to his early days helping his dad run shows in Bootle and around north Liverpool. It is arguable that Allan could even have been an entertainer himself. Barely into his teens he passed a lunchtime audition for a group called Stefani's Silver Songsters. They were booked to appear in the seaside resort of Morecambe on the northwest Lancashire coast. "I was overjoyed, had actually packed my bags and bought a one way ticket and was on my way when suddenly my dad burst into tears. I didn't got. Mind you I was only 14." "Everyone thinks I just stumbled into the music industry and show business but I was at it from an early age. My old man ran the local hop at St Phillips Parish Church Hall near where we used to live. As soon as I could walk straight I can remember every Thursday and Saturday nights being roped in as the cloakroom boy. "I think when I was a teenager that's what started me off boxing as well," he says with a grin, "Because all the baddies would come to the dance looking for trouble. All these brave boyos who had just come out of the army would bellow at me: 'I fought for the likes of you."

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"Mostly without warning because they were all fired up with beer they would then kick off, trigger a fight and attack my dad. I couldn't stand by and let them beat the shit out him so I'd end up on their backs being hurled around while me dad smacked them. It was all a great lark, mostly. "I decided that as I was being threatened every week by these thugs -and I was only a titch -1 went to Ju Jitsu lessons. I'd seen this advert in the Liverpool Echo which asked: 'Are you Being Bullied, Are you the one who gets sand kicked in their eyes/ You know the Mr Universe crap, that sort of thing. I wandered off for tuition from this chap called Gerry Skyner in Catherine Street in Liverpool. "The first time I was there I told him about the dance hall business and I did embellish it a bit and told him I was the MC. I explained that because of my height I was getting hammered senseless every week. But I stressed that I didn't want to waste time learning all that tricky stuff, just how to defend myself and give the bastards a good seeing too. "After about ten weeks of Gerry showing me the moves I became quite good at that Ju Jitsu lark and couldn't wait for the next bunch of dipsticks to have a go. I didn't have long and as they bundled into me I sent them lashing across the slippery dance floor, much to their amazement. "The floor was highly polished with beeswax - another of my weekly chores - so that the ballroom floor was smooth for the dancers. It also worked to my advantage when I was sorting out the bullies. "My old feller taught me that when a fight began you had to throw the culprits out immediately to prevent it spreading. He was always quick off the mark and now I was able to join him and we made a formidable team. So, I suppose I've been a battler all my life, which is why I don't give into all the bollocks that has happened to me. "My old man was a well known promoter around Litherland and I found his diaries from just after the Second World War when he was putting on all these dances to cheer people up. I was around my late teens then and was being paid about five shillings by my dad to help him out. "He put on two dances every week right from the mid 1930s up until 1949 - even in wartime - and was probably one of the big showbiz guys in Liverpool although it was only a hobby. His real job was as a joiner but he later became a building inspector with the Crosby Corporation department. "I had to chuckle when I read his notes from a Boxing Day dance at St Hilda's Church Hall featuring the Modernaires Dance Band for 1948. He'd paid the band 10.00, not a bad sum in those days. He spent other money on publicity in the Bootle Times and spot prizes for a raffle. I was even listed for my five 'bob' wages. "But what made me laugh was that he made a loss of eight quid (8) on the event. Due to it being the Christmas holiday no one had turned up. Ha, shades of my show business misfortunes years later, but mine were on a much grander scale. "He'd even paid out for refreshments - ghastly sounding tongue sandwiches that cost him a pound with seven loaves of bread at 4d each. And, oh yes, he made up fish paste sandwiches. People knew how to enjoy themselves in those days, eh? Yuk. "And this was my introduction to the world of showbiz, folks. He used to put shows on at Litherland Town Hall the very place where Beatlemania first kicked off in the UK, after Bob Wooler suggested to Brian that it was the 'in' place to book them. "My dad - who was always called Dickie - was doing the same thing years before...and of course it meant that I had also been working in that same venue before the Beatles appeared on the scene. Then I read how he had lost 6 on a New Year's Eve thrash in St Phillips Hall in 1951 until I was finally cheered when he turned in a meagre 10s profit and 8s 3d on minerals for one subsequent show. "By the time I was 20 in 1950 I was promoted from the cloakroom and was handing out prizes for dance competitions and handling the spotlight. Its no wonder show business has coursed through my veins. I was weaned on it. "It's entirely possible that we employed Paul McCartney's father who ran a dance show band around that time called Jim Mac's Band. It was just the sort of outfit my dad would have hired, with its accordion and stuff. I'm pretty sure he did."

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There is a tale that Mike McCartney swears is not apocryphal. Jim McCartney was a keen selftaught musician and bought his first piano from Harry Epstein's original NEMS shop at the bottom of Everton Brow in north Liverpool. It might send a chill shiver running up the spine of those inclined to delve into the mysteries of weird, almost occult like, associations but Allan and his dad were also customers of Harry's store. "So even as a young man I was fated to be involved with the Beatles. How about that? I never mentioned this to Paul, just slipped my mind I suppose. "Ha, I paid the Beatles ten shillings a man on their first few gigs. I was as tight as my dad and maybe as unlucky. If I'd kept the Beatles under strict contract I suppose I could've netted 250,000 for them off Epstein back in 1961." Yet for all the apparent fun Allan had a tough childhood that has left him scarred in many ways, not the least that he never knew his real mother. Even on his deathbed his father refused to tell him where she was buried. It was a bizarre and cruel situation. It still affects Allan badly. "I left school at fourteen and did a seven year apprenticeship as a plumber. It was hard and every day I had to push a bleeding handcart up Hawthorne Road in Bootle, up the hill towards the cinema, which became a nightclub and then on to Seaforth and Waterloo. I was so small that you couldn't see my head above the wheel shafts especially when we were carting a ladder to do roof repairs. "I had this mate with me - Billy McManus who had failed the army entrance because he was ill, my god he was almost on his last legs - and instead of helping me the misery guts would be leaning on the cart wheezing. "Gasping for breath I used to moan: 'Billy for chrissakes will you stop holding onto the handcart, it's killing me. He was even smaller than me and I'm convinced people thought that handcart was making its own way up the bleeding hill cause we were hidden behind a forty-foot ladder. "So, there I was with the dying days of the war raging around us mixed in with all these plumbers who'd failed the army cause they were sick with something or other. I was only about 14 or 15. "I was put to work with this powerful guy who was a roofer. I couldn't quite figure out what was so ill about him. He scrambled over the slippery roofs like a baboon thrashing through the treetops. He had nicknamed me The Whistler 'cause I used to whistle songs all day long. One day, he was in a bad mood and shouted: 'If you don't stop bloody whistling I'll throw a bucket of water over you...and of course I did...get the water pitched over me, that is, as I refused to shut up. I still whistle, it keeps me calm and I can appear nonchalant. "Like most trades - in the days when we had tradesmen in Britain - an apprentice had to undergo an initiation ceremony. Mine was particularly embarrassing. When we were wiping joints we used a plumbers block black, which was like a black paste. The idea was that they would black up my penis and testicles. When they tried to grab me I ran off and thought, stuff this for a lark, and as they approached I pissed all over them. They were incensed and I certainly didn't get off Scott free. Instead of blacking me up, they pitched me in the canal where I nearly drowned! "I can't believe it now but I worked mostly as a plumber until I was 25. A year later I had married Beryl. I was in the Bentley Operatic Society and she appeared as a visiting dancer from the Birkenhead Operatic Society in our production of Merrie England. I fell for her right away. "After I'd completed my training at 21,1 was then taught gas fitting and I turned my hand to a combination of skills that have served me well over the years. I ended up fixing up old houses but eventually realised this couldn't be my job for life. And I buggered off to sell fridges and later encyclopaedias. "You might be wondering where my army service slotted into this. Well, truth is I didn't do National Service. I was listed as Grade 4, which apparently meant I wasn't fit enough. I've wondered over the years what that was all about 'cause I'm still kicking around at 73 years of age despite serious heart surgery "Sure I didn't try to back out of the obligation. I had delayed it a bit because I was a plumber and that was a reserved occupation. But eventually I went along for the interview yet I was never told what was wrong with me. The Recruiting Office merely stamped my form Grade 4 and bundled me out. Britain was involved in a bit of a barney in Malaya at the time,"

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reflected Allan who fancied a bit of a rumble in the jungle, to paraphrase the pugilistic punch up between the boxing legends Mohammed AH and George Forman years later. "In fact I was something of a boxing sensation myself, even if I was a light featherweight," reveals Allan with another hearty cackle. "Maybe the Army thought because I was underweight that I was ill. But I'd kept myself lean to keep inside the boxing classification, you understand. "Well, sick or not it didn't stop me hurtling round the ring. As a young man I boxed regularly for a guy called Mickey Duffy in Litherland, in a club, which spawned the great Gordon Asher. "Fd taken up boxing as an amateur at around eighteen or so and with Ju Jitsu also under my belt I fancied myself as right little scrapper, and I don't think. I learned the honourable craft in an old stable on the corner of Beechwood Road and Bridge Road. All the lads congregated there, the ones with ability and the others subconsciously seeking a way out of their miserable lives. It was a bit of a dump and stank to high heaven. And the showers were bust, which after a sweaty session was a bind. Ah, but being a fledgling plumber I soon had them fixed and became a hero with the lads. "Mind you, the truth is I wasn't that good at boxing because I kept getting knocked out. Eventually I was forced to give it up as a bad job or I would have been killed or seriously brain damaged. Maybe I am. ''I'll always remember my first fight. What an occasion. You might think a triumph. It was part of a regional citywide competition and my stepmother made me these glorious red satin trunks because I wanted to look the part in the ring. I was really posing and swaggering as I was climbing through the ropes but all of a sudden waves of sheer fear hit me and I thought, oh shite this is it. I was really scared shitless. "Then a miracle of some kind occurred. I won. Ah, but do you know how I won? Well, sadly it was by default not my abilities to wield a hefty blow with the glove. The other guy didn't turn up. I didn't throw a single punch. It turns out my opponent was more scared than me. He'd been crying like a baby. " Allan breaks down in guffaws. "That was my first ever victory...and my last. After that initial mood of elation - and relief - every other time I ventured into the ring I got battered witless, and usually hammered to the canvas. Occasionally - but a little to frequent for my liking -1 got knocked out! I'm no longer a boxing fan." Contrary to the belief that he was a Welshman - even Paul McCartney ascribed to that view - Allan was actually born on February 21 in Percy Street, Bootle, a tough, no nonsense working class area of north Liverpool, the hinterland to the important docksides and port, Liverpool's economic lifeline to the world. "Yeh, I am a Scouser but the rest of the family were Welsh," snorts Allan, proud of his Celtic origins. My dad, Richard Williams, came from Chirk and the rest of his family from Caernarfon. Why do you think my name is spelt in the Welsh way, just for a bet?" "But I don't know much about my mum. She died when I was only one year old giving birth to twin girls; they also died. Then my dad remarried when I was quite small and my stepmother brought me up. I've got a half sister and a half brother. "I actually didn't know about my real mother until I about eight or even nine, maybe a bit older. I can't quite remember. But I was evacuated to Wales during the War to live with one of my aunts. "I just loved it there, the countryside and all that. I made friends with all the Welsh lads and we'd fight the other evacuees. I was naturally on the Welsh side even though I was one of the Scouse invaders. I was scrapping with the Welsh boys against them...ha, ha...Throwing bricks at them. Life seemed good and the hell back in Liverpool didn't affect us at all." Then Allan's own personal world exploded into shards. His aunt, for some strange reason that evades him still, revealed that the woman he thought was his mother wasn't. "I stood rigid and stared at her stunned. She explained that my mother had died when I was a baby. It was as though the night had closed in. She didn't do this in a kind sort of way and I've thought since that it was totally unnecessary. It really messed me up, and still does. All hell had broken loose in the Chirk household when Allan found out the truth. "I was really confused at the time because I'd been kicked around from family to family. "I went ballistic and the shit really hit the fan for everyone. I became uncontrollable and began

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fighting all the local kids in Chirk as well as the Scouse lads. I was also getting the worst of is because I was on my own." He was quickly sent back home right in the middle of the harshest part of the May Blitz when the Luftwaffe where laying waste to British cities. Liverpool in particular was hit hard. Bootle and the docks - one of the key shipping trade routes for Britain's supplies - were one of the main targets of the German bombers. The area was smashed and levelled to the ground. "It was like bloody bonfire night every night. I thought it was fantastic because I wanted things destroyed, I suppose. It masked my own private fury and hell. I collected souvenirs galore: incendiary bombs, bits of shrapnel and the fins off bombs. "I simply couldn't handle living with my dad's mother's sister in Chirk after she had blown the gaffe. I think - at least I hope - that my dad was pissed off at her. But I became an aggressive little kid. What had happened to my twin sisters, I tearfully demanded to know on every occasion I could. No one would tell me anything. No wonder I was going cuckoo. "It really frazzled my brain for years and my dad never ever told me anything. I found out years later from other people that my mum was from around the area where we lived. I managed to get hold of a copy of her birth certificate recently and it told me she was born in Waterloo, which wasn't far away. Her maiden name was Annie Cheetham. That's all I ever found out. I tried to track other members of her family down, but failed. There is just this huge blank void. "For years I begged my dad to tell me just where my mother was buried so I could visit her grave. But for some passionate, personal reason of his own he wouldn't, even on his deathbed. "I remember the night he died about five or six years ago. He was in his late 80s. He was very young when I was born and there must have been some story behind it. I never knew. I was holding his hand and with tears tripping me I pleaded: 'Please, dad, can you at least tell me where is her grave. His head turned on the pillow away from me and he just pushed my hand to one side. A few hours later he just died. Once again I was devastated and knew then with an aching, hollow certainty that I would never, ever be able to have closure on my mother. I suppose it is a really sad story and might explain why I am a bit of a crazy headcase myself. "At first I'd got on well with my stepmother who was really good to me, her name was Millie Twigg. I remember she used to boil cabbage until it had almost melted, almost disappeared in the pan. I never understood why. "Once I knew the truth if affected our relationship. We had moved everywhere when I was a baby because my dad was a joiner and in the 1930s work was hard to come by. "I was back in Bootle from Chirk and still kicking up a fuss. I remember the old man came home one day - we had a flat above Mason's Cake Shop...and he hit the roof. They used to tie me to a chair to stop me from wrecking the place during the day and he came home unexpectedly. Obviously he'd been sacked, 'cause that was the building trade in those days. And there I was tied to the bloody chair. He went nuts. I suppose all this stuff has scarred me for life. "Ironically my half brother is a plumber. He is younger than me by ten years and I do think of him just as my brother. He now has his own business employing about ten people. My sister Olwyn is maybe seven years or more younger than me - she married a guy called John Gillam. They all live out in Crosby to the north of the city still. I only ever see them at functions: weddings, christenings and deaths, the usual family rigmaroles. There is a big network of us in Crosby but I don't see them much." This whole tragic scenario has been a central theme in Allan's life. This issue over his mother has affected and infected everything he's ever done, like a sore than never heals. He thinks that's why he probably had so much empathy with John Lennon who never really got over the death of Julia, his mother. "Maybe that's why subconsciously we sparked off each other so much. And with Paul McCartney to an extent, who also lost him mum early. Ah, well."

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15 - Jane Asher scoffs at Allan's 'pecker' after she watches him simulate sex - in the nude - with a goat on the stage of the National Theatre! Apart from that rip off video film by Shotmaker in Grimbsy other ostensibly more bona fide 'would be' storytellers have battered a path to Allan's door aware that his is a gripping tale of tragedy mixed with sublime farce. One of the more recent was an approach by Andrew Loog Oldham, the erstwhile manager of the Rolling Stones, who like Paul McCartney are still banging around the world on concert tours. "Andrew's another old mate of mine from Blue Angel days and remember we both looked after the two biggest bands in Britain at the time. Later the whole world knew about them," commented Allan who was told that Loog Oldham was planning a television movie about his role as the Beatles first manager, which would also incorporate scenes about Pete Best. When Allan met Loog Oldham's representatives - strangely a swish public relations firm based in Glasgow - they even hinted there might be a section on Beryl Adams. "I was told that it was almost a done deal and that the finances were all being worked out as we spoke. The scripts and filming were to start within months." So far, he is still waiting but hopeful. The mean publicity machine has relentlessly sought Allan out and many in the broadcast media have used him in association with tales of the Beatles. He has appeared in countless television and radio news reports and documentaries across the globe, and notably in the UK in the ITV Arena programme on John Lennon and the Beatles Anthology series, linked to the best selling book. It was Mersey Television producer Mai Young - now head of drama for BBC television - who cleverly latched onto the long overdue idea of featuring Allan as the manager of a group. In the mid 1990s he cast him in the drama And The Beat Goes On that starred Liverpool actor John McArdle, who made his mark in the popular television soap opera Brookside and later as a police inspector in the critically mauled cop show Mersey Beat; the title an unconsciously ironic take on the city's once glorious musical days. Like everyone in his circles in Liverpool Mai Young knew of Allan. He reckoned he was perfect to play the part of pop group boss Vince Baron in the Channel 4 series with McArdle as Ritchie O'Rourke, the leader of an up and coming band. He asked local radio presenter Billy Butler, the former Cavern Club disc jockey from the sixties, to approach Allan, as they have been firm pals for forty years. 'We wanted someone who was around at the time and Allan was one of the pivotal managers of that period and has remained a well known character/ explained Young, who wanted Allan to basically play himself. "Obviously I was typecast but it was an excellent series and very authentic. A lot of the actors taking part didn't know about those days and had to learn. But I was there and didn't have to act/' said Allan. Set in pre-Beatles Liverpool it depicted Allan as Vince taking the group to Hamburg just as Allan did all those years ago with the Fab Four. Sadly it didn't pick up huge ratings and was eventually dropped after the writer moved to another television company. "But I really did enjoy playing this outrageous big cigar smoking showbiz impresario. I wish it had turned out that way in real life." Outrage in various guises has constantly dogged Allan but even he is inclined to blush pink when reminded of the occasion he indulged in simulated sex with a live goat on stage. It ran in tandem with his role as a singing dolphin in a quixotic production that was the brainchild of the theatrical anarchist Ken Campbell. Best remembered for playing Alf Garnett's nasty neighbour Fred Johnson in the hit television comedy sitcom In Sickness and In Health, it was Campbell who, when presenting the Channel 4

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series Six Experiments That Changed the World, unearthed the wacky story of a 19th century monk called Mendel who cracked the genetic code by growing thousands of peas. In contemporary times his Ken Campbell's History of Comedy Part One: Ventriloquism was a smash hit at the Royal National Theatre in London and packed them in across the UK on a spring tour in 2001. Campbell was the most hilarious and diverting creative to descend on Liverpool during the 1980s when he ran the influential and then risk-taking Everyman Theatre. It was a time when the city itself was centre stage nationally thanks to Militant Tendency led political shenanigans. Derek Hatton and his acolytes were engaged in virulent class warfare - morally defensible, if imprudently deployed - with Margaret Thatcher's arch Tory government that was determined to subjugate the rebellious northern city. Purely by circumstance tinged with a smidgen of guile Campbell also ignited the revolutionary but relatively local punk scene in Mathew Street into a cultural muse that would resonate across Britain and further. He scoured the clubs and bars, hiring many of the musicians to take part in his rambling, often incoherent, gloriously off the wall sci-fi epic called Illuminatus, which controversially racked up acres of criticism and contempt, but was also hailed as a work of near genius. He filled its ranks with celebrity personages such as Jayne Casey, Ian Broudie and Bill Drummond who delighted in the apparent disorder it imbued. Peter O'Halligan - whose indulgent chums and acquaintances thought a happily demented individual - enchanted even the wild man Campbell. He operated the exotically named O'Halligan's Parlour in what is now Flanagan's Pub opposite the Grapes in Mathew Street. Combining a coffee bar with stalls hawking bric-a-brac and reproduction mirrors, it was the forerunner to the likes of Liverpool's populist Quiggins Centre and Manchester's Print Works. The Parlour reflected the Zeitgeist of the age and Campbell persuaded O'Halligan to rent him out the vacant first floor for this ambitious eight hour long show that stretched over several days. Allan and his pal Bob Wooler were part of the Mathew Street furniture at that time and Campbell already knew Allan very well through his wife Beryl's theatrical connections. In a masterstroke of casting, and aware of his vocal range, he urged Allan - who had always harboured vague thespian ambitions - to accept a role: he was to be dressed in top hat and tails and his character was a dolphin that sang: It's meeee.... I'm heeeere. Hello Mr Human. I'm Horace...' in his richly timbered light tenor voice. It was a part tailored for Allan: "I didn't hesitate for one moment and although the show was a bit long it was packed out every day for two weeks. I was thrilled. "There was this Battle of the Atlantic scene and because I was the leading dolphin, I would claim to fight for whoever had the right," he attempts to explain but can't and just shrugs. Even he sniggers at the Black Mass scene when all the cast would rise up as though from the bowels of the makeshift theatre. "I came on stage dressed in that black tailcoat and a cloak but wearing nothing underneath. I was naked. I also had this goat with me on a long leash. Alongside was this American girl called Janice - also in the nude - and she was being sacrificed on an altar. "It was all quite surreal and then another actor would shout: 'Do as they all wilt or beware of the Lord' and this was the signal for us all to strip off totally while a cacophony of sound echoed around the auditorium. It was sheer chaos. "It was my cue to simulate 'fucking' this goat. And of course it was live and clearly wasn't that keen on this bollock naked human rubbing up close against it. The poor thing used to shit all over me every night and the black cloak I wore was covered in goat shit. It needed to be cleaned regularly." After Liverpool, Campbell took the show on the road and it wound up in Amsterdam, naturally, where it received rave reviews after performances in fringe theatres all over that liberal minded Dutch city. "Of course we couldn't take our goat with us but on the first night Ken arrived with this goat but he wouldn't tell us where he'd found it. I figured there must have been an irate farmer searching for his goat. Just as well he didn't find it, we'd probably have been arrested. In fact I don't know to this day why we weren't."

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While in Amsterdam a few of Campbell's buddies from London's National Theatre came to watch the caper and clamoured for the show to launch a new fringe theatre they were opening in the capital. That was the Cottesloe, now a highly respected venue for mainstream and experimental drama. "I was hugely impressed that Illuminatus was to be the first production at the National's new fringe venue but was in tucks when we had to 'borrow' a goat from a little inner city farm in London. We didn't tell them what it was for. "But there was also an element of embarrassment about performing in the show, no matter how hard faced we all were. We shared the canteen at the National with professional actors - we were also in that category to all intents and purposes as we'd had to join Equity before we could take part. "In fact in our ranks was a smattering of full time actors who were, shall we say, partly 'resting' at the time including the now eminent Jim Broadbent, Prunella Gee, Dave Hill and Chris Langham amongst others. "So there I was queuing up in the canteen when I suddenly realised that the person in front was Jane Asher, who had been Paul McCartney's girlfriend. I thought it best not to introduce myself, for once in my life I was tongue-tied. I mean how do you explain the career shift from Beatles manager to Goat Fornicator. "She was more breathtakingly beautiful than in the photographs, flowing thick red hair and gorgeous freckles. I was waiting there to pay the cashier for my meal when she suddenly glanced backwards from the till and I nearly dropped my tray as she trilled pleasantly: 'I saw your show last night.' "Nervously, I just grinned inanely when out of the blue she landed a surprise low blow and laughed: 'But you've got nothing to boast about down there, have you?' "I was stopped in my tracks and indignantly retorted: 'Excuse me, Miss Asher, do you realise how cold it is in that basement? It's a freezing cold concrete floor...and of course my...it shrivels up.' But I had lost that one and she walked off tittering. Every night after that wisecrack I tried to encourage my, erm...'pecker'...to try and give a better show. But she never came back." The company stayed in the Cottesloe for three weeks before the National Theatre took over the production and sent it on a tour of London, including the Round House in Camden and Chalk Farm. "Yeh, the aptly named Chalk Farm. It was there that I was introduced to a new goat - if you'll pardon my intimacy - but it all went pear shaped, literally Well bollock-shaped actually, if you'll pardon that vulgarity. "I'd wandered in before one performance looking for my goat. As I inquired a few people looked startled and gasped out: 'Sorry Allan it was pregnant and its waters broke last night. Didn't you know?' Then they all began pointing and wagging their fingers, suggesting that I hadn't been stimulating the sex act all. Sod off, I bellowed but then they relented and still laughing admitted they had a replacement. "My god, it was the size of a small pony. And it was tall for a goat. I cried out that there was no way I could handle that beast, but to no avail. "Come the Black Mass scene and this crazed critter is beginning to worry me. It had never been on stage before and was clearly frightened witless. Suddenly the lights flare and the music begins to shriek out and this goat took off like a scalded cat, pardon my mixed metaphors. But not before it had shat all over me. It dashed past the American girl who screamed and jumped up, running around naked in terror. "As luck or rather misfortune would have it that was a night when -for a reason I can't recall - a large number of the audience were in wheelchairs, taking up the two front rows. "You can imagine the scenario. This demented goat is scuttling around the floor in a panic going berserk. It smashed into the serried ranks of wheelchairs scattering them leaving the occupants screaming hysterically. It was a madhouse and there's me - stark naked apart from this flowing black cloak - chasing after this huge bloody animal trying to bring it down. Marvellous." The stories emanating from Allan's adventures with Campbell and the goats are still surfacing. One

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in particular has Allan looking over his shoulder to this day, fearful that one of those former fellow actors has possible intentions to murder him. "One involved this guy that I shared a hotel room with when we were in Amsterdam. Unbeknownst to me, he was a psychopath. I only found this out years later when I ran a stall in Camden Lock market in London. A short digression will explain that this was another of Allan's entrepreneurial exploits. He and another pal - who was then married to theatrical director Ann Bates, a pal of Allan's wife - made a decent if not hefty pile by stripping old, abandoned churches in Liverpool. They were naturally only interested in the precious artefacts, although with the brass neck that would result in others being tortured by the Inquisition he confesses it was largely conducted without the permission of church authorities. Adept at clambering around buildings from his younger days as a plumber, Allan had a sharp eye for potential antique-style bargains such as almost priceless stained glass windows and costly solid oak pews. He had a personal yen for lecterns and recalls one ornate mahogany example that was adorned with a fabulous carved eagle. 'That was a nice little earner," chuckles Allan who went on: "It was all a great wheeze and we would draw up in a battered van and wander in to these empty places. No one seemed to mind and I did have to make a living. The van wasn't reliable enough to drive to London so I'd haul them off to Lime Street station in Liverpool where the lads in the goods cars on London bound trains would happily stash them; for a few backhanders of course. "I'd then board the train myself and travel in comfort south. Once there I had a similar deal with the lads in Euston station and they would off load the stuff and I'd get it carted the mile or two to the second hand antiques market in London's Camden Lock where I'd flog them off to eager punters." This had all come about after Allan had struck up a friendship with actor Dave Hill whose wife Jane had a stall at the Lock. "She suggested I should try it and so I took over her stall and would stay at their place, usually over weekends, when working. "Oh yeh, the lunatic. Well, one night over dinner in London Jane just casually mentioned a terrifying story about this particular geezer. "You were fortunate he didn't kill you, Allan," she muttered. Startled I asked for further details. She replied with a confidential whisper: "Well, he rang Ken Campbell last night and spoke to Pru (Gee, who was married to Ken at the time) and wanted to come around and talk to her about a problem." "Jane carried on with the tale as my eyes grew wider and my mouth fell open. It seems this bloke had just attempted to kill someone who he'd been obsessed with in Illuminatus. He believed that she was like a force of evil and it all came from her eyes. So he had rammed a steel rod between them. I was trembling by this stage as Jane related how he wanted to come and talk to Pru who at that point didn't have a clue about what he'd done. "But she a feeling that something wasn't quite right and put him off by saying Ken wasn't in. He wasn't going to be deterred that easily, it seems, and kept insisting that it was Pru he wanted to see. And this was soon after he'd stabbed this girl in the eyes with the steel leg of a coffee table. Whoa. I think the girl survived, just. "He was sent for trial and despatched to Broadmoor, the prison for the criminally insane. He was banged away for a long time and I understand Ken Campbell went to visit him now and then. "The point of this story is that I heard he was released about four years ago and came to Liverpool looking for me! So you can imagine I was scared to death. He did go to the old family home and talked to Beryl and even tracked me down to the Grapes pub. But fortunately I was barred from that establishment at the time. (Note: at one point or another Allan has been barred from probably every drinking establishment in Liverpool, and he doesn't even try to deny it, to the contrary it is like a badge of honour). "Seems he only hung around a few days and missed me. But I'm not really that scared. Nah, I'm sure I can handle him. I just have to make sure he isn't carrying a table leg," and once more Allan is reduced to gales of laughter.

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His Ken Campbell escapades lasted a year and fulfilled a yearning in Allan to try his hand at acting. "But although I did thoroughly enjoy being in Illuminatus, in the end I found it one of the most boring, repetitive jobs on earth; the same thing every night. I can't figure out why so many people want to be actors." Campbell was a canny operator and easily persuaded people to take part in his productions. Allan's wife Beryl was well known in acting and theatre circles because she'd run a series of houses as digs for theatrical folk for years and she became embroiled in the public relations campaign for Illuminatus. "Yeh, the whole of the Liverpool scene was involved. Even Bob Wooler auditioned for the part of the American president and I have to say, much to my amazement, he was bloody fantastic at it. A natural. "His American accent was superb and everyone applauded him wildly every night. Campbell was mightily impressed and offered him a full time job as an actor. But as usual with Bob, he didn't have the bottle to follow things through. He cried off and turned it down. Typical of his negative approach to life, really/' His derision reflects the tempestuous relationship that Allan forged with Wooler who died in February 2002 after a long illness. They were sparring partners -joined by a metaphorical umbilical chord to the Beatles legend - even when they organised the first Beatles Conventions in Liverpool. Their barbed - but hugely amusing - repartee would hypnotise and appal thousands as they toured the world relating 'insider' gossip and 'secrets 'but more often than not disputing the other's anecdotes in a two-handed verbal spat. "In 1976 Bob and I started off the first ever Beatles Convention in Liverpool's Pickwicks Club. It was a celebratory thing for John Lennon's birthday or something. We put on half a dozen Beatle copycat bands from all over Liverpool with for a bizarre reason a disc jockey from Norwich. I've still got the programme. "Sure, they are doing it more professionally than we did and are charging about ten pounds, maybe even more. We just weren't that business minded, which is fair enough, but what pisses me off is that no one acknowledges that we started off all this moneymaking mania. "But Bill Heckle who runs the Liverpool conventions is a mate and we have been invited to all the events he's put on. It helps me sell the CD that I made with my old pal Rob Fennah, from Pulse Records, where I talk about the old Beatles days, although one of my big hits is a signed mug, which has printed around the rim the legend: The Mug Who Gave Away The Beatles," Allan utters ingenuously. In the early days of ratcheting up the Beatles lore Bob Wooler, who was nervous of flying and wouldn't contemplate long haul even for a king's ransom, rarely joined Allan on jaunts that bundled him around Mexico, the Dominican Republic, Cuba, Canada and Singapore, as well as vast tracts of the United States. "I've never managed to reach Japan but it is on my list. Once I was invited to Caracas in Venezuela but it was cancelled, because the whole country went bloody 'caracas' because of some revolution or other." Allan's also keen to touch base with Sergio Scholnik in Rio de Janeiro, a Beatles nut he met at a Liverpool convention. Sergio and his mates have opened the first copycat Cavern club in the Brazilian capital. "That's my next destination," gurgles Allan hopefully. However, despite his reservations if the events were in Europe the capricious Wooler could occasionally be cajoled and Allan recalls that their first combined effort was in Cologne - another Liverpool twin city - in the early 1980s but it was uneventful. "I think I was over exposed in those early years of conventions and it did dry up for a while. But now there is revived interest and the cycle seems to have gone round and I'm in demand again, twenty years on. It's never ending. "Only recently before I went to American with Pete Best I did an hour's interview with a guy from the New York Times which was apparently being syndicated all over the States." Oddly, muses Allan, there has never been any attempt to stage a Beatles linked event in Hamburg,

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where it all properly began. "It's as if they never wanted us there because so many people are claiming that they discovered the Hamburg scene and I am an embarrassment to them if I tell the true story. "There wouldn't have been any British groups there if I hadn't pioneered it after my steel band buggered off to work behind my back for Bruno Koshmider," he insists. Indeed there has never been a music convention linked to those early beat days in Hamburg although songwriter and showbiz promoter Ulf Kruger - who has written a fascinating guidebook about the city's links with the Beatles - did draw up plans for an exciting music themes Liverpool style Cavern Quarter. "That would be fantastic and I think could become as big a draw as Liverpool/' says Allan. The plan - still on the drawing board - is to focus on a proposed rebuilt Star Club. With a wry smile Ulf Kruger likes to disavow his Liverpool pals of their belief that the music was known as Mersey Beat in the Star Club's hey day. It was called the Hamburg Sound/ comments a bemused but defiant Ulf, who now also manages photographer Astrid Kirchherr, the lover of Stuart Sutcliffe who died in her arms shortly after quitting the Beatles. Astrid has remained a good friend of Allan - and his wife Beryl - a warm relationship that began when she fell out with Sutcliffe's mother. Allan and Beryl looked after the two lovers for a while, even letting them stay in their home. Whenever Astrid is visiting Liverpool, she always asks about Allan or they try to meet up. In response to Ulf's claim though he is fast off the draw: "Excuse me, The Hamburg what...? I don't remember it being called that then. We are back in the realms of selective memory here." Along with Astrid, Ulf was drafted in as a leading historical consultant for the rather tame Backbeat film of Sutcliffe's life in Hamburg. The movie was panned by the critics and Beatles buffs alike. "Pah, it was frankly an appalling mess, and I barely recognised any of the so called facts," sniffs Allan, who wasn't even given the chance to comment or have any input unlike when he joined Cynthia (Lennon) for a cameo spot on Channel 4's Beatles Anthology series. "After the Anthology recording we were invited to a number of parties in London and I was quite excited at meeting Liam Gallagher and I thought it would be like old times when I spotted a couple of the Rolling Stones. "But they're wrapped up in all these cosy cliques and if you are outside you don't get a look in. I was ignored. I couldn't be arsed ligging it too much but the booze was flowing, and me tongue was beginning to wag. "I was about to let rip with a bit of invective aimed at Jagger. Fortunately Beryl (Adams) was with me and she knows the signals when I am about to take off. She had me out of that party like shit off a shovel. Just as well. "I've been good friends with '' for years and battered around conventions together, along with Pete Best now and then. One of the best was Toronto about five years ago, which I think was the first foreign Beatles event Beryl attended. She even got up to speak but clammed up because she was too nervous. Cynthia was very kind and told her not to worry, it happened to everyone. "I think the last time all three of us were together - me, Cynthia and Pete was in Bradford when we worked for a young Italian guy called Rocco Buonvino. He'd put on a Beatles sound alike concert and invited the Pete Best Band to play. Rocco didn't mean it but that was something of a slap for Pete; he was an original Beatle, not a sound alike. "He didn't speak to anyone really and it was Cynthia and I chatting to the punters. That was the night she told me that it was going to be her last show on the Beatles circuit, that she' 'done enough'. She and her chap had bought a farm in Bordeaux. I heard that finally Julian had been paid from the estate of John Lennon. "Yoko was the will's executor and she wouldn't give them the money until she thought he was mature enough to handle it. So he had to wait until he was 25,1 think. Rumour was that he gave his mother a million pounds - and quite right too - so that she was financially sound. "The last I heard of poor Cynthia was that that she'd split up from that guy and was going on tour again to do Beatles Conventions. I haven't met up with her yet, though. I heard she was down in

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London with an exhibition of her own paintings. Well, it's obvious she can paint because she met John at the Art School. "I've known her right from the beginning when they first met. I was also in on the secret when they married and I knew when she had Julian. As it happened I was in Smithdown Road hospital in Liverpool for an ulcer operation when she was having the baby. Ha, I used to wave to her when she was going in for whatever attention she was needed for the baby." As the years have rolled on Allan has settled into a warm friendship with Pete Best and is delighted that the drummer is now apparently financially secure. "Yeh, well there has been talk that because of the Anthology tapes which included the Decca stuff they had to pay him royalties. Maybe even a million quid (pounds). I don't know and don't care. Good on him, he deserves it after all the flak that flew his way. "Sure he still does conventions and plays gigs, why not? And I find it fantastic that his brother Roag manages his newfound career as a musician. His dad is Neil Aspinall who was the Beatles roadie for years, their right hand man. "It was a secret for years that Mona Best had an affair with Aspinall but so much water has flowed under so many bridges it doesn't matter now." There were a few jaundiced folk who felt that Allan could've helped steer Pete Best back into the limelight when he was pushed out of the Beatles. "That was plain daft and was never on the cards because I'd finished with the Beatles after I'd told them they would never work again. Sadly it was Pete who never really worked again, at least for a long time in the music business. He just slipped into anonymity for decades. Once the Beatles smelled success it was Pete they got rid of and he was deadwood. I did think at the time, 'poor Pete' but now he's back on a roll. "And the truth is that today the only people apart from the surviving Beatles themselves who can talk with any real authority about the formative years of the band are people like Pete, Cynthia and myself. "We do it because its also a lot of fun, honest. I can recall Pete and me in Singapore about ten years or more back opening this Sergeant Pepper Club. "We'd been flown out all expenses paid and I had my wife Beryl with me as well. We were put up in the best hotel and the organiser told me his club was packed because we were there. "As we were cutting the ribbon I thought: "What are we doing this for? We weren't anything to do with the Beatles when Sergeant Pepper was released." The owner was from Scarborough in Britain and Allan had met him at a party He'd later married a Singaporean girl, found out that the Beatles were very popular in Asia and decided to cash in. Naturally, Allan wasn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth. His daughter Leah was wandering around Asia backpacking around this time and cannily he'd asked for open-ended tickets from the Sergeant Pepper man so that he could link up with her. "We left Singapore on a ferry heading for Thailand and it was such a fantastic place that when the girls - Beryl and Leah - flew off back to Britain, I decided to hang around Phutong on my own. I rented a wooden hut - and a mosquito net - on the beach and lazed around for a few weeks. It was lark, especially as the only drinking and washing water was in a 30-gallon drum." Perhaps the most memorable of Allan's escapades involved ructions with Miss Norway and a humdinger of a row with British Airways in what was to morph into what many recall as the 'fateful summer of 1994' for our hero. Oslo promoter Rune Lund regularly invited Allan to take part in Beatles festivals after first meeting him in London during the infamous Camden Lock days. Rune recalls that most of them had gone without a hitch, apart from a few hiccups. But the last occasion deteriorated into a complete financial fiasco, and a social debacle of the highest order when Allan became 'tired and emotional' after 'courteously' accepting the generous Norwegian hospitality bestowed by Beatles fans gagging to meet him. "We were doing this hour long radio interview for broadcasting across the nation and Rune was staging the show at an expat bar called the Belfry, which boasted a concert hall that could

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accommodate 500 people. Hey, no problem," says Allan; although Rune's frazzled memories suggest that this glib remark is a flawed recollection. Rune trained as a graphic designer and 20 years ago was a student in Britain. He'd been a mad keen Beatles fan since a wee boy. He even had all the Beatles autographs. He was living in Watford and in his spare time played bass in a band called the Dives. 'Naturally I had heard of the great Allan Williams. Everyone knew his story and his reputation. The gossip amongst the musicians was that 'the famous' Allan Williams had a stall in Camden Lock; and oddly no one was puzzled at this downturn in his fortunes. 'Every weekend I would visit him and I suppose I was a pain in the backside," says Rune but one day he did invited me to stay with him and Beryl in Liverpool and this went on for a few Christmases.' Allan has a more jaundiced impression of Rune's approaches: "Basically I told him to fuck off when he began pestering me at the stall but after I'd reduced him to tears I felt like a louse. So I relented and agreed to have a drink with him and then took him to a party. We soon became friends." His studies completed Rune eventually moved back to Oslo in 1984 but kept in touch with his newfound pal and this friendship most certainly carried a certain cache in Norway. He began to discuss the idea of a Beatles event with Williams who, he says proudly, had 'adopted' him as his second son. "Ron - I never quite got the handle on how to pronounce his proper name - booked me to appear at the Sardine Club, which is quite famous in Oslo. It was such a success that I've since done about five shows in that city. Seems, according to 'Ron', that I'm a bit of a cult figure especially over the night we had to give everyone their money back cause I'd upset them...I couldn't even remember that." This is the incident that became Rune Lund's nemesis in Norway. That first convention took place in 1985 but at first Rune was dismayed when people didn't turn up despite national radio promotions with Allan blethering away ten to the dozen. 'We were very worried and by mid evening it looked like it was a dead duck," says Rune who despondently looked up to have his spirits soar as droves of people were crowding in, too many for safety but what the hell. 'The fans looked upon Allan as a god. It was unbelievable. They were so in awe of him and to this day he is very big in Norway/ asserts Rune, who is surely ranked high amongst these disciples. However, little did Rune know but that the 1994 convention was to be his last throw of that particular Beatles related dice. It was held in the basement of a popular English expatriate pub called the Belfry. It contained a restaurant, which boasted a concert room that could accommodate about 500 people. Such was Allan's fame that the British Airways agent in Oslo had agreed to sponsor the event -and flew Allan over from Britain free of charge. This guy was so into the show that he dragged along a coterie of local VIPS, keen to impress them with his ability to rub shoulders with 'celebrity'. Everyone was Miss Norway & Allan still on friendly terms until later... anticipating a memorable night. And so it turned out, but not quite as anyone expected. The day before his 'personal appearance' at the Belfry Allan has been invited to attend a party aboard a millionaire's yacht floating gracefully in a nearby fjord. "He owned the local radio station where I'd been doing interviews publicising the convention. I suspect they wanted to show me off," laughs Allan, never one to take matters seriously but always first in the queue for a free gargle of champagne. All the press had been invited and Allan was lording it like a king, swilling back the champers and wallowing in the company of Miss Norway, a ravishing Scandinavian beauty. "It was a bloody smashing do and I was lashing back the booze. This beauty queen was gorgeous and I did manage to snaffle a kiss but there was no romance, apart from my side. You know?" And he guffaws. "Sure, I fancied her she was very attractive. We had a full day on this lovely boat and naturally I became drunk. So, naturally I was thrown off the boat. I think Miss Norway - can't remember her name now - was appalled at my behaviour but it's all a bit vague to me."

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That should have been the tolling of a warning bell but Rune prefers to be circumspect about that particular social gaffe because Allan's subsequent behaviour put the top hat on it, an end to any further Ron Lund run Beatles conventions in Oslo. 'It virtually ruined my name/ adds Rune ruefully, the hurt still evident. In fact there was no reason in the early lead into the day to be suspicious that chaos was looming, as Rune's 'working' relationship with Allan had been running relatively smoothly. Indeed the previous year earlier Rune had interviewed Paul McCartney in Oslo at the start of a world tour. Rune and his colleagues were also staging the Beatles Festival 93 featuring the ABB Miljo Norsk Vittlefabiskk band as a tribute to the McCartney gig. And Allan was in town at the same time as Rune's guest and so Rune reckoned this could have a pay off, especially because he did these occasional personality pieces for the radio station. 'During my chat with Paul McCartney of course I told him that Allan was our guest of honour and that he would be in the audience that night. 'So when McCartney came on stage after a while he shouted: 'Hey, I know you're out there in the crowd, so Allan Williams this song's for you!' The whole place erupted and people were clapping Allan on the back. It was tremendous/ comments Rune, who basked in the reflective glory: but not for long. 'One we also met Cynthia Lennon in Norway - by coincidence. She was doing a world wide memorabilia tour and we went along to the museum where she was appearing and there she was. She knew Allan right away and they fell into chatting. He can be a charmer when required/ recalls Rune fondly. By the early evening of that ominous Beatles convention the year after the '' show, the Belfry was very crowded and buzzing with anticipation. Allan's earlier entertaining broadcast on the radio had attracted waves of punters. "The thing is, I was sober doing the radio interview in the afternoon but the mistake was that we went to the show about two hours early," Allan explains in a vain attempt at mitigation. "You see there wasn't anything to do until later and of course everyone was feeding me vodkas. I couldn't refuse. It would have been discourteous." Even the landlord was getting anxious as Allan's antics became more immoderate and erratic as the large vodkas slipped down his throat. "All I remember was waking up in the in the morning in Ron's house and trying to shake him awake. "Bloody hell, Ron. Wake up, we've got a show to do. "To my astonishment he was very nasty and glowered at me, shouting hoarsely, 'Allan you bastard. We did the fucking show last night'. I was gob smacked. I had no recollection whatsoever. Rune seemed to be in something over a tizzy over this and I snuck out quietly to let him recover," says Allan, still hazy after all these years. The wounds have healed now, sighs Rune, but he confesses that it took years to shake off the shame of that evening. 'Apart from the much awaited appearance by Allan and a series of bands, I had set up stalls displaying all my Beatles memorabilia that I had collected over the years. It had the promise of a great success.' Perhaps what compounded the felony for Rune and the shocked observers was that the whole event was being broadcast live on national Norwegian radio, NRK - the Norway Broadcasting Company. 'By the time Allan was due to speak, he couldn't. Not properly. And he hadn't even prepared a speech. He was clearly very, very drunk and wasn't up to it. But there were nearly a thousand people crammed into this room waiting to hear him. I think we were even breaking the law with the numbers. T had no choice in the face of this to start the event, which included a question and answer session with Allan. Unfortunately he was out of his mind with drink, falling all over the place, incoherent and wildly and recklessly insulting everyone within earshot. Tt was a complete catastrophe as well as being terrifying. And I got the blame.' Doubled up with mirth at the memory or lack of it - Allan says: "It seems I was sitting at a table with this British Airways bunch and loudly insulting them. Whenever anyone asked a question from the floor, apparently I would shout, 'Not until you get me a large fucking vodka!' This upset the

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British Airways guy even further. "Red faced with anger this BA suit turned to Rune and said, 'I'm not paying for this arsehole. You'll have to pay us back the money we gave you'. I ask you. No sense of humour." Rune still shudders at the horror of it all: 'Let's say to be kind that Allan didn't quite fulfil his part of the deal! The British Airways people were very angry too and wanted their sponsorship money back but I'd spent it so I refused. 'To say the least they were not at all pleased and were insisting that they just hadn't expected that sort of behaviour, that it was outrageous. Their VIP guests had stormed out. 'And the audience was also enraged and some were even threatening to kill me - and Allan - unless I gave them their money back. I felt that this was probably a good idea under the circumstances. 'Then to cap it all, I was obliged to hand out as compensation gifts all my beloved Beatles memorabilia that I'd been collecting since 1963: magazines, posters, records and books. They were queuing up to take them. It was worth a lot of money and I was very angry indeed. 'My reputation was destroyed as a promoter in Oslo - and even across Norway - and I've never staged another Beatles event since'. Indignantly Allan points out that he was deserted the next day and had to make his own way back to Britain. "I was despatched home in disgrace and at first Rune point blank refused even to take me to the airport. I said I was sorry but it didn't seem to cut any ice. So, I'm struggling along with all my own memorabilia and a couple of suitcases off into the middle of nowhere, trying to get to the airport. I was suffering. "I wouldn't mind but when I arrived in Oslo I was greeted like a king with chauffeur driven cars. Afterwards I was told to get a taxi and told to bugger and not to come back...ever. You have to laugh." Rune reflects that he knew Allan was a mercurial character because - in drink - he used to be insulted regularly in London; that perhaps with hindsight he should have expected a volcanic eruption one day 'But like most people who know him, I kept coming back for more. Once he says sorry, you can't stay mad for long. He does have his good sides/ comments Rune affectionately. 'I was very hard on him at the time I suppose. I yelled at him that he had ruined everything for me. Finally I drove him to the airport in total silence. But as British Airways had cancelled his return ticket he had to pay. There was no way I was handing him a bean in payment. 'I screamed at him not to say a word and that I didn't want to speak to him or see him ever again, shouting that he was a useless bloody bastard. People in the airport were looking apprehensive at all this noise. But Allan sat through this abuse quietly pensive, obviously suffering from a hangover. 'Of course we've become friends again since and the incident is long forgotten but at the time, to be honest, I was heartbroken as it was just such a terrible nightmare. 'I lost so much of my Beatles stuff. And I saved his ass there because he was in so much trouble with so many people. To this day the owner of the British pub, former Coventry City footballer Derek Dawson, says he recalls the event with horror and nightmares. 'But you know, it hasn't affected Allan's reputation one little bit in Norway. People laugh at it now as a classical disaster - which is, I have to tell you still remembered as folklore. He is a hero and a legend despite it, or maybe even more so because of it. It may sound unbelievable but the huge numbers of Beatles fans in Norway look upon him as an icon! 'Oh, these days I love him. And his wife Beryl and Justin and Leah have always taken good care of me. I adore Liverpool. I have only good things to say about Allan even though he has made me so angry at times over his behaviour. 'But you know, we have to sympathise with him in many ways. I suppose if you'd got rid of the Beatles you are entitled to be a bit unruly. After a few drinks he must go over and over it and ask himself 'What Did I do?' Surely it is the biggest mistake of anyone's life? 'He is also quite a performer himself and I do understand why he drinks over the top. He is an honourable man deep down.' Allan discreetly prefers to refrain from acknowledging Rune's 'hero-gram' as he has a veritable

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treasure trove of Beatles convention anecdotes that would fill a volume on their own. He sometimes likes to hark back to an early 1980s event in Sheffield when he and Bob Wooler were ripped off after setting up a three-way deal. "We had been told that Paul McCartney might be popping in. I knew this was bollocks. "None of the Beatles has ever attended a convention from Timbuktu to Toronto, and there wasn't a snowball's chance in hell of McCartney tripping along to chew the cud with Beatles anoraks. Give me a break. I knew that but the organisers everywhere are ever hopeful. "In fact Bob and I were co-organisers of this festival in Sheffield and we were rather chuffed that the Welsh actor and filmmaker Victor Spinetti was our chief guest speaker. He was the daft bastard telling everyone that he'd met McCartney a couple of days beforehand and had urged him to come along. "He said that McCartney had been quite taken with the idea but when he put it to Linda she put the blocks on it. Well, that may be so but I can't recall that he's never since so much as publicly even uttered one word about these events, good or bad. "I reckoned Spinneti was a bull-shitter as I couldn't see any reason whatsoever why McCartney or any of the other Beatles would have turned up. They would have been mobbed. And for what? The chance to mingle with gangs of obsessed collectors of trivia? I don't think so. "That wasn't the ultimate joke, though. I wasn't surprised when Bob's pal ran off with the takings; it was par for the course. And Bob didn't tell me until later that this guy's name was David Crook. Crook by nature as well, I bellowed." Thus has the Williams and Wooler variety doubt act entertained and delighted fans and friends alike for decades; yet another highlight being tales of a disastrous trip to Paris when the duo were invited to do a series of television interviews about their Beatles links. Wooler was reluctant, that old fear of flying, but Allan was persuasive, knowing that the French television company wanted them both. "Bob needed a drink to steady his nerves and good manners insisted that I couldn't let him imbibe alone, so by the time we arrived at Orly airport we were both tanked up. I had borrowed a rather swish suitcase for this trip and as we staggered to the carousel I spotted it and yanked if off. "This TV firm was one of the richest networks in France and expense was no effort: a plush hotel bang up close to the Eiffel Tower and a smart chauffeur driven Rolls Royce at the airport waiting to whisk us into Paris. "What a life and it got better, for when we checked in they told us everything was to be put on the TV firm's account. That was mistake number one. I was rubbing my hands with glee. "We had a few drinks in the room and then it was time to get our bearings. But first I wanted to freshen up and put on clean clothes. Stuff me, but I couldn't get the case open. "I called the porter but still no joy. Off he went and came back with a huge claw hammer and set about this expensive suitcase with a vengeance. The lid sprung open. "Bob was sitting on the edge of my bed looking the worse for wear when I said, 'Stuff me, Bob. 'No thanks/ was his quick-witted, pithy reply, drunk or not. "No, Bob. You don't understand. This isn't my suitcase. It's similar'. However, unlike my bits and bobs this case was brimming with expensive designer gear: Yves St Laurent, Versace, Hugo Boss and bleeding Cardin. "I was a bit nonplussed at first, as I wanted my own clothes for the TV show. Then I noticed that this guy's gear was just about my size. Hey, ho, so I climb into this stuff and slide on a pair of snakeskin Gucci shoes. I felt like a million bucks but more than likely looked like a bag of old rags because I'd been hammering back the booze for hours. I was still pissed. "It was time for dinner and once I'd clocked that we were on a freebie I was eyeing up the lobsters like a famished tiger. Hmmm, frogs leg, snails and a bucket of champagne. Absolutely. "Bob was twitchy - ever the artful, artificial snob - and advised me to take it easy. This grease ball of a manager comes up, schmaltzing around us and when I ask what he wants he replies with what I thought was a sneer, but was actually a Continental smile: 'You are the gentlemen with the television, oui?'

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"Quick as a flash I responded in my rudimentary French: 'Oui, cer-tainement'. And he's back mangling his hands like old Uriah Heep. 'Dat eez good. You 'av notting to pay. "That was mistake number two. "We ordered six bottles of swanky champagne, four lobsters, a small pyramid of snails and dozens of oysters. We could have fed Ghengis Khan's army for a week. We topped that of with the finest cognac the maitre d' could rustle up. The bill must have been astronomical." Allan's enthusiastic gourmanding meant he had spilled wine and sauces all over his lovely borrowed - cream linen suit by Versace but by this stage he was past caring or noticing. Sated he and Wooler stumbled off to bed to get a good kip for the next day's prime time TV show. It was only early and the bright lights and flesh-pots of Paris beckoned. "But we were whacked. I dropped Bob at his room and staggered into mine. I'd just collapsed on the bed when the phone rang. It was Bob in a state of high alert. Allan! Allan! He screeched down the line. "There's a fridge full of booze in my room. Come round and help me finish it off." "Well, he was certainly singing a different tune, I thought. Not much reluctance to get stuck in now. I did need to sleep but you can't let a pal down. "That fridge was better stocked than the bloody Grapes pub in Mathew Street: champagne, wine, whiskey, vodka and beer. We drank the bloody lot. I suspect we'd gone a bit loopy. "Then barely able to stand or speak we lurched back to my room and polished of the booze in that fridge. It was fast approaching dawn; we were pissed as rats and fell into a drunken stupor. "I was awakened by the shrill ringing of the telephone when I spied Bob slumped in a corner. Strewth, I was startled into wakefulness; it was time for our big time personality appearances. It was to be a four-hour tribute to the Beatles and we were the guests of honour, can you imagine? "I stunk like a skunk but managed to have a shower and forced Bob to at least scrape some of the grunge off his crumpled clothes. "The effect of the shower didn't work. All I wanted to do was to heave up my guts. My stomach was in turmoil, gurgling like Krakatoa about to blow: the very thought of frogs legs made me retch. "But we had to set off for the TV station. We were already late. I hadn't realised that the Versace jacket looked like the garment worn in Joseph and the Amazing Technicolour Dreamcoat musical. It was stained and creased like an old rag. Ooops. "Bob could hardly speak and was tottering along like an old maid. At the entrance to the studios a suave producer who looked askance at our condition met us. But before I could take a whirl through the glass doors, I needed to throw up. "This young lad watched open mouthed as I knelt in the gutter and was violently ill. As I went back in I could see this crowd of TV technicians -wearing headphones and carrying clipboards - staring out through the glass window at me in amazement. Bob was sitting bandy-legged on a comfy couch in the foyer almost comatose." Then mistake number three, on the part of the TV team. "The TV folk invited us to lunch before the filming. 'We will 'ave sometheeng to eat and drink, first/ insisted this delightful, pretty public relations lass. Bob was still babbling away to himself in the foyer. "Well, once again I couldn't be impolite and was obliged to share a glass or two of wine in this delightful company. But I couldn't eat a solitary thing. "Then we were wheeled off to watch the Beatles film Help! This was just about the right mood for us. They wanted us - and a group of other contributors - to make comments throughout and talk into microphones through interpreters. "But we fell asleep, as we were both so knackered. The usher kept waking us because we were snoring so loudly. Then we attempted to pull ourselves together and did the face to camera stuff. It went out live on French nationwide television. It was a shambles if you ask me, but what the hell I was having a ball. "Mind you at one point just before the cameras rolled I felt my stomach heaving again. Fortunately there was a large ashcan under my table. Remember the days when everyone didn't have this daft downer about cigarettes? It doesn't bother me because I've never smoked.

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"Ah, quickly I threw up into the ashcan, hoping that no one would notice. If they did, they were too polite to show it. The filming was over and the big Whigs seemed relatively content. Hey, now it was payday. I was thinking that maybe we had a big future in French television after all. "As we strolled - or rather rolled - along to have a chat with The Head of Programming I got the impression that he looked a trifle pissed off. We were sitting in his cavernous, plush office with views of the Seine. To my addled brain he looked mean. His lip was curled over his teeth like Marlon Brando in that gangster movie where he sends someone a horse's head. "I suspected by the chill in the room there was going to be a late drop but Bob hadn't picked up on this. I think he was still pissed. "I smiled at The Head of Everything in French Television and he peered at me as if I was one of the snails I'd gorged on the night before. "Suddenly I nearly jumped out of my skin as he leaped to his feet bellowing 'We will pay you, NOTHING!' He shouted in that lazy French accented way, 'Nozzzing at all!' And he was waving his hands around uncontrollably. "Hey, wait up we did a good show. We might have fallen asleep once but I thought we were rather professional." My reply fell on stony ground. "Mr Big Head was trembling slightly: 'Maybe you tink you did a good show. But it is of no consequence. My people 'ave just shown me the beel at the 'ottel. It ees a fucking joke, non?' "Bob had revived by this time and I sensed he was nervous. He tugged at me sleeve: 'Allan, AW old friend. I don't think they are impressed with us. Let's just quietly leave.' "The Frog Big Head who muttered darkly interrupted him: 'Listen to moi, you bums. We 'ad President Nixon 'ere recently as our guest. The President of the United States of America, with his whole fuckeeing entourage. And his hotel bill was less than yours! I do not beleeve dis. GO AWAY!' "Composing ourselves as best we could Bob and I shuffled out of the TV station penniless. I thought we might be able to rifle a quick free drink in the hotel before they put the clampers on. But they'd beaten us to it. So we left." It is remarkable how Allan's life has been choked with the weeds of coincidence. He's standing nonchalantly in the airport departure lounge when this bloke comes storming over. "I noticed he was carrying a busted up suitcase with dirty clothes spilling from it. Ah, I recognised it immediately. Oops. I'd dropped it back at the carousel, you see." This chap was an American businessman. He was loud and very, very angry. 'You little bastard, you have really fucked up my stay in Paris. Fortunately for you I found out that you were at the television station and they are going to compensate me. Otherwise I would rip your head off your shoulders.' "I nodded my apologies and sidled off. My, my, I mused. And once again I was flabbergasted at the utter absence of any sense of humour exhibited by most people. "And do you know, folks, for years Bob Wooler blamed me because he didn't get his silly fee from the French. I mean that's a bit much." Allan continues to paddle his canoe through charted and uncharted waters, though, and as he asserts seems to have found his second wind. The two major European Beatles festivals - in Liverpool and Berlin - are hoping to 'work it out' together and have established friendly ties. Such is their confidence in his 'pulling power' they have both continued to feature Allan as one of their main stage speakers. As the Liverpool convention has expanded - almost exploded - over the last twenty years Ulf Kruger, a respected hit songwriter with 500 recorded songs to his credit and who once worked for the Beatles recording company Polydor, became good friends with organisers Bill Heckle and Dave Jones. He was there in the summer of 2002 when a record-breaking half a million people from across the globe flocked to Liverpool for the massive Mathew Street Festival, now rated as the largest and most eclectic musical jamboree in the world. Still only in its infancy after two years the Berlin festival - a joint effort between the Hamburg

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based Kruger and impresario Bernhard Kurz - takes place in the Estrel Center, Europe's largest and most dynamic events venue although located somewhat out of the city centre. One of Allan's more ambitious tales concerns the prospect of him possibly managing a new 'Beatle style' band, a scheme dreamed up by his Italian pal Rocco Buonvino who lives in Yorkshire in the UK. Rocco had been a guest at Allan's 70th birthday party in DeCoubertins Sportsmans bar in Liverpool where are raft of old and new bands played for free as a tribute to the man many reckoned had transform the Mersey Beat scene four decades earlier. A Beatles freak Rocco has managed a couple of tribute bands to his heroes but has dreamed up what Allan reckons could be a smash hit: a young Beatles tribute outfit who must be from Liverpool and who only perform the early songs. 'I want to capture that accent and only the genuine article will do/ believes Rocco who has high regard for the likes of the Bootleg Beatles -generally assumed to the best of their ilk - but he thinks they are getting a bit past it at their age. 'I want to give an opportunity to young people to carry the baton and every previous show I've done concerning the Beatles has involved young people, well at least 80% of them/ explains Rocco who isn't looking for identikit look-alikes or to dress them in the familiar early Beatles suits. Allan is quite taken with Rocco's concept of the band dressed in something like lime green suits, which he suggests might provide a complete counterbalance to the image. "And apart from those early covers they will tackle all the number ones on that successful CD," says Allan. In what could be a masterstroke of business acumen - or another disaster zone - Rocco wants Allan to be the band's manager. I've known Allan for five years at least, and really well ever since I staged that Bradford Beatles Convention. It was a small venue but we got Allan there along with Cynthia Lennon and Pete Best, their first time together in three years. I think we established our credentials at that event.' Rocco's idea is that Allan would stage auditions for the band in the Cavern Club in Liverpool. "We are looking for four young lads who can shake the world again: drums, bass, lead and rhythm guitar and ALL must be Scousers, or at least sound like Scousers," says Allan. "We intend to promote them nationally and internationally. Once we find them we intend to spend two months or so in development like the TV bands that have been created. "The idea is call them The Baby Beatles and they must be 16 to 18 years of age as the originals were approximately when I was involved with them. "Everything will come full circle and this time I will try and make sure I don't' screw up and lose this band," joked Allan. Half in jest Rocco says he looks upon himself as the new Brian Epstein, the paradox of that apparently lost on him, although he did laugh. And he has also met Paul McCartney when he staged a show at the Liverpool Institute of Performing Arts. Later when LIPSA head Mark Featherstone-Witty wanted to raise money for the school, Rocco put on a fund raising show for him at Brighouse in Yorkshire. Originally a hairdresser Rocco has been in the music business for ten years and currently manages a couple of bands in the UK. He seems strangely not that aware of Allan's track record. "Despite his exotic Italian family name he is a trueborn son of Yorkshire. His parents are from Naples but his own accent is richly endowed with rounded Bradford vowels," chuckles Allan who still laughs at the disaster of that Bradford Beatles convention. "Contrary to Rocco's recollections it was a flopperoo." In his usual biting asides Allan says that Rocco at times seems to be 'off his own rocco' citing the time he wrote to Yoko Ono to suggest they take over the Millennium Dome together and turn it into a John Lennon museum. She turned him down. I'm so annoyed because it could have been a worldwide attraction and George Michael was looking for somewhere to park the White Piano he bought for lm. He could've loaned it to us. The Dome was being sold off for only 125m but she wasn't interested (sic). I'm really cheesed off with Yoko over this/ moans Rocco.

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T even rang Cynthia Lennon and Allan Williams to suggest it could've been the ultimate People's Museum as a tribute to John Lennon. Cynthia did promise to come back to me on that one but didn't.' Anyway Rocco rolls on: 'Paul is such a sweet fellow and I think he would really rate the Baby Beatles who could keep the whole tribute market flowing along. And I think Allan is marvellous and the advantage of him is that he can produce almost the real thing and not muck it up this time!' Tongue presumably firmly in cheek Allan declares that the Baby Beatles will be the ultimate tribute band search ever undertaken. "And this time I won't be the man who gave the Tribute Beatles away I can assure you. We might even be able to get them a gig in the new Star Club in Hamburg. Now there's a thought," mused Allan, spiralling off to mentally plot and plan." Hopefully if he does this he won't cart the band over to Germany in a dilapidated old van as he did the Beatles. Dubliner Sean Newman was the garage mechanic pal of Allan's in Liverpool who serviced that original vehicle for its first fateful journey to Hamburg. As a matter of interest it was Sean who dreamed up the catchy slogan The Mug Who Gave The Beatles Away' for that other of Allan's wee money-spinners. He often wonders about the fate of the battered Austin J4 van that was pictured in the Beatles Anthology being lifted aboard the cross Channel ferry en route for Germany and the history books. As Sean - who worked a hired hand in a small garage in Liverpool in the late 1950s to early 1960s recalls it was painted a nondescript two-tone cream and brown but could actually seat 12 people at a pinch; although with all the Beatles gear it must have made a mighty crush. 'Ah sure, it was a late 1950s model - and not in that bad condition then - but has probably been long ago scrapped/ says Sean ruefully, who remembers servicing it a few times for his mate Allan Williams. Allan would regularly to transport groups around, including Gerry and the Pacemakers as well as the Beatles. 'I can remember meeting the Rolling Stones in the Blue Angel and saw the Beatles regularly in the Jacaranda and I was only around twenty years of age then me self, so was quite caught up in what was going in/ says Sean in his rich Irish brogue; he's a County Meath man and today lives only a short hop from Dublin's city centre. For years since Sean has been scouring scrap yards, auctions and second hand car sales all over Ireland and the UK trying to find and buy a replica of that Austin van with a view to tarting it up. The idea being to register it with the original licence plate number and perhaps clamber aboard the Beatles nostalgia circus himself. He recalls that it was Beryl Williams he met before Allan, not then aware of the turmoil about to be unleashed on his life. But - as is so often the case - it is Allan who has remained a lifelong pal after embroiling the lugubrious Irish man in a string of adventure strewn frolics. In the 60s I worked for Casino Car Sales in Old Swan, which is now a Kwik Save supermarket. My boss was a guy called Victor Anton - long dead - who was a salesman and a part time musical entrepreneur who knew Bob Wooler very well. That was how I got involved and was probably both my downfall and the start of a great friendship with Allan laughs Sean. Like so many Irish people of that time Sean arrived in Liverpool to escape starvation and unemployment from an Ireland where in the 1950s the economic situation was dire. There were no jobs for young people, unlike now when the Tiger Economy has rocketed it to one of the major growth areas in Europe. 'I landed on the Liverpool shore straight off the boat early one morning. It had been an horrendous night crossing in a storm lashed Irish Sea, which often raged at force 8 during the ten-hour voyage. It was a nightmare of sleeplessness punctuated by the sounds of people retching and vomiting. 'Carrying a battered brown leather suitcase held fast with my own leather belt, I dragged myself up the hill from the boat terminal and then miraculously saw a sign advertising jobs. I gasped in shock, as this was an unknown sight in Dublin or especially rural Ireland where I came from. Then I shook my head in disbelief as I read closer: 'No Irish or Blacks' it plainly said. I was staggered. I suppose I can laugh now but it was a harsh reality then/

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He suddenly breaks off these personal memories and laughs in a rasping fashion as he recalls suggesting to Allan Williams not that long ago that he should consider having commemorative mugs made with his name and the legend printed around the outside: The Man Who Gave Away the Beatles 'We'd met up in a cafe somewhere about fifteen years ago - and I'd been backing Ireland a long time but often visited the UK - and I saw a mug with a logo. I mentioned to Allan that it could be a money-spinner for him. And we both laughed. 'Shortly after I was back in England on business for the motor-trade, I was then involved as a sign writer on vehicles. Pity we never did that Beatles van with a sign. 'Anyway I met Allan and he handed me a present. It was a bleeding mug with the very logo I'd suggested only he had altered it a bit to The Mug Who Gave The Beatles Away. I fell about and I think he is still selling them. I drink my tea out of one very day of the week. And I have a spare in case it breaks. 'Of course Allan is always banging on about how he lost out financially over various deal but I have to keep reminding him that he never, ever gave me any royalties for that bleeding mug idea/ chortles Sean. Every now and then Sean meets up with Allan to swap tales of the old days and perhaps take a drink. 'We'd been out this one day and after taking a wrong turn somewhere in the midlands of England found we were lost. Allan, as usual, suggested having a drink in a pub where we could ask the way. 'As we sat there supping I noticed the landlady who was half-pissed herself. I sauntered over to where she and her husband were sprawled over the bar. 'Hey, do you know who that little guy is?' I asked pointing at Allan. 'They were very impressed when I told them and then showed them a recent newspaper cutting of Allan attending the Hard Days Night digital film premiere in Liverpool. Soon there was a crowd hustling around seeking autographs. 'In the corner there was this ringer for George Formby who launched into a singing routine from the Lancashire vaudeville entertainer's repertoire. Within seconds the whole pub, led by Allan, was singing along. As usual with Allan the drink flowed and the 'craic was ninety', as we say in Ireland. We were there for fecking hours and never did ask the way home/ said Sean, amazed that Allan constantly finds the muse as if by a beacon. Sean has remained friendly with Allan for more than forty years and after those early days as a mechanic bought a small garage of his own -Rialto Car Sales located adjacent to the Rialto Cinema that was burned to the ground in Liverpool's Toxteth Riots in 1981. It was there for a few years, confides Sean, that he stored that historic Austin van. 'We didn't really appreciate its future importance and one day Allan wanted to sell it. So I advertised it. This West Indian chap came to have a look and gave my assistant Ruddy a 100 deposit. 'He wanted it delivered to Moss Side in Manchester where he lived. I explained that we didn't deliver that far but to get the balance of the cash I decided I would drive over with it. 'This guy had a grocers shop and so I parked outside. Then when I was inside talking to him someone parked in front and at the rear of the bloody van, blocking it in. After driving over the thirty odd miles I'm having a wingding of a row with this guy who is blithely telling me that he didn't have the rest of the money. 'As we were exchanging verbals he was casually chopping up a yam with a huge machete. I was a little apprehensive at that point and thought it best to withdraw in the best fashion of gallantry. But I couldn't drive the bloody van away as it was hemmed in. 'Allan never did get the balance of the money and that legendary old van vanished somewhere in Manchester, presumably ending its days delivering vegetables and fruit.' According to Sean, now in his early 60s, fast cars were one of Allan's secret passions, especially a well-loved Jaguar, which he apparently drove like a maniac. It seems that one night they were both nearly killed under the wheels of a juggernaut. 'We were hurtling back to Liverpool from Manchester along a treacherous dual carriageway known

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as the East Lancashire Road. We were both well pissed, of course. Allan must have been doing 120mph and I'm screaming at the bastard to slow down. Without warning to me just outside the town of St Helens he slammed the brakes on to avoid something on the road, a cat or a fox. The fecking car went into a spin. 'There we were in the dark, in the early hours of the morning - around 2.0am - drunk as monkeys with this bleeding Jaguar whipping around in vicious circles until it sped across the central reservation. We found our selves on the opposite side of the road and heading rapidly for a huge oil tanker that was bearing down on us. 'I reckoned we were both gonners and was praying fervently when the Jaguar ground to a halt within a fraction of an inch of this roaring beast whose own driver was battling like a madman to keep it under control as he tried to stop. Phew, we survived by a whisker and all Allan could do was roar with laughter.' Escapades have been part and parcel of Allan's life, as Sean knows only too well. 'We were once in a Manchester club and we sure enough had drink on us. We were chatting with a couple of wild girls. I think we can safely say that these lassies were not exactly top of the range models, a trifle on the scraggy side and a bit rough and ready with it. 'Allan had drunk a fair bit and his tongue was its usual 'razor blade' self in that state and he turned to one of these girls and said something rude or dismissive. She erupted in a fury and drew a knife on us. 'We scattered like wild animals and she hurled it after us. It came whizzing past my head and stuck with a thwack in the door I was just going through, missing my ear by a fraction. My heart was pumping even though I was well away with the booze. Again Allan was laughing like a drain. 'Sure enough I've been in some hairy scrapes with that man in me time. 'It was largely me own fault though because I used to maintain and look after Allan's Jaguars for years. I mind another occasion in London when we'd been down for a special event and the drink as usual had flowed as fast as the Don, or rather the Dom Perignon. 'I was sitting in the passenger seat almost catatonic with fright as Allan is directing this hunk of metal down a one-way street the wrong way. We were screaming along at about 100 mph and he was totally steamed out of his mind. It was sure a wild time and sure don't I know, it was terribly reckless - and usually illegal - but I'm told he's a lot more equanimity about him these days/ he says with a broad grin. He squirms with embarrassment to this day about the time - suffering a mega hangover - he awoke in bed, turned his radio on in his Dublin home and heard Allan's voice bellowing over the airwaves of the now defunct Radio Nova where he was booked to spout his usual Beatles related guff. "Now, I wonder where the fuck that bastard Sean Newman is this morning?" It rang around Sean's head, jolting him out of an alcohol inspired melancholic reverie. The previous evening into night, Allan and Sean had crawled around Dublin until dawn sampling the local brew and the 'lock in' bars. 'I knew Allan was due in to the radio station but I was so knackered I overslept. Well, in fact we didn't have any sleep. He just went straight there, still pissed as a rat. My phone rang and it was a nephew who had heard the same broadcast, as had most of my friends in Dublin. 'I was in hysterics as I drove into town to the station and as I arrived the station manager Chris Carey grabbed me desperately, he needed someone to try and take control of Allan who by this time was engaged in a furious but hilarious phone in. I marched into the studio with Allan still on air and he shouted over the mike: 'Well, fuck me folks. That bastard Sean Newman has finally just walked in. There must have been maiden aunts and priests all over Dublin choking on their toast and cornflakes. It went on for another half hour and for years was rated one of the most entertaining phone-ins ever held by an Irish radio station. The switchboard was inundated with a mixture of irate callers and people in tucks of laughter at his fruity language. They ended up - at the radio's expense - at the luxurious Jury's Hotel in the wealthy south Dublin area of Ballsbridge where they drank until dawn again, with Allan regaling customers and staff

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alike with his endearing profanities. 'Jayz, my head ached for weeks, still does," laughed Sean.

16-the heat goes on and Allan swears -as if-that hell probably see them all off... Slightly reflective in his old age Allan concedes: "You know, folks, we made five copies of that original Beatles Hamburg tape and it would be worth millions today And it would be all mine as I paid for it. But as you all know I lost my copy somewhere in the backs streets of Soho and the others have vanished too. But in the end as himself said: The love you make, is the love you give'. He laughs like a drain. 'The reality now is that me and Paul McCartney and even Pete Best. We are the true survivors: in different ways, of course, with different lifestyles. I don't have McCartney's millions for a start. "I'm glad that Pete's finally out and about now with his own band making a name for himself across the world. And there's Paul at 60 still hammering out the tours. I suppose I do feel proud of that in a way. He was one of my babies, after all. "And he's just finished some huge American concerts and did that massive world tour finishing off in Liverpool on the banks of the Mersey. He's a bit like Frank Sinatra unable to let go. No matter how many times he denies it he'll probably do so many retirement concerts that he'll drop dead on stage. I can only wish him good luck; I still have a high regard for him." Sitting in a window seat in the Grapes pub in Mathew Street, Allan pauses with a drink to his lips, peering over the rim of a large glass of red wine. There is that familiar devilish glint of glee in his eye. "There's only thing that still gets me annoyed about Paul, though. Frankly, I just don't know how he can sleep at nights, him almost being a billionaire, and still owing me a miserable fifteen bloody quid. "You know, the bloody Beatles still owe me that money as my commission payment for the last gigs in Hamburg. They never did pay me. Over the years I've mentioned it to him several times and he even once advised me with a smile to talk to his lawyer. As if. Ha. One day, though, I might just do that. I might just win. Ha, ha." No wonder then that Paul McCartney still acknowledges that Allan Williams tells a great tale. As he wanders off to mingle with the spectres of the past and today's bright-eyed tourists Allan turns in the pub door and yells uproariously: "Hey, so as you see, I can still tell a great tale.' He was off to meet an American Beatles tribute band, 1964 - rated as one of the best in the USA who were in Liverpool to sort out arrangements for making a promotional video. Naturally they want Allan to feature in it. As he turns on his heel, a young man, no more than 25 years of age, in a black t-shirt approaches him. 'Excuse me. Are you Allan Williams? I wonder if I can have your autograph and a photo taken with me. You are the last on my list. I have met Paul and George and Ringo. Cynthia, Julian and even Yoko Ono/ Allan shrugs and slings a friendly arm around the lad's shoulder. The following month he was guest of honour at a Billy Fury tribute weekend, the organisers keen for him to rabbit on about the Larry Parnes audition with the Beatles. "Yeh, well they got it wrong in the programme. They said the Beatles failed the audition with Billy Fury. Well, they didn't. They won, it was just John being a fucking perverse bastard over Stu Sutcliffe not being wanted that screwed that deal up." Allan was also looking forward to tripping the light fantastic at Berlin's Beatles festival. The invites certainly haven't dried up and he apparently thrives on them. Suddenly passers-by are startled as Allan's raucous yet cheery laugh bounces off the cobble strewn Mathew Street towards the Cavern. "You know, folks, I'll probably see them all off. Then I can say what I bloody like. There'll be no one to fucking argue." Ah, yes, one more gem. Allan is the blood brother of the Canadian Indian White Cloud, chief of the Ojibway tribe. However this historic mingling of cultures didn't occur on vast rolling plains, in a

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mountain fastness or a smoke choked tepee after a ferocious battle. White Cloud is a fanatical Beatles fan and he bumped into Allan in a bar in Vancouver when he was touring North America twenty-five years ago. "White Cloud wanted to be as close to the memory of the Beatles as he could. So we cut our wrists, slapped 'em together like in the movies and -hey presto - I'm now an adopted Ojibway," chortles Allan. There it is then, the continuing story of Bungling Al, the real Fool on the Hill. But does he care? And is he that foolish? His sang-froid must mark him down as the very parable of a survivor. What do you think?

Backward - towards the future by Peter Grant Allan Williams is a survivor - a man who personifies the unique Liverpudlian drive. If someone in Beatle circles mentions Allan you immediately picture this jovial, red-cheeked, white-haired character with a glass of red wine in his hand. He's quick to forgive and he's even quicker to forget. But he remembers.. .some very important memories. Other people forget that he was there at the out set. His place in the Beatles Magical History Story is set in stone. He is mentioned with fondness in the Beatles Bible: The Anthology. When he speaks at fan conventions and recalls those tough but musically formative days in Liverpool and Hamburg when John, Paul, George, Pete Best and Stuart shaped the future of the greatest band the world will ever see, he has real authority -because he was instrumental in getting them bookings. Allan is a maverick who accepts his lot and - unlike his late great pal Bob Wooler - he has always been happy to talk to fans all over the globe about The Beatles and have his photograph taken and reminisce with anecdotes about his association. His colourful language; his love of a tipple and his passion for life make him a living, breathing statue in a city of culture that owes so much to the four lads who shook the world. "Yeah, Allan tells a good tale/' Paul McCartney told me. Long may he tell his fab stories.

The sting in the tail - the day Allan gave Bill Haley a rocket... and the sack Early in May 1968 Allan was promoting yet another show, this time at the Cavern in Liverpool. He had booked the American rock 'n' roller Bill Haley, considered to be one of founders of the genre. On the day of the performance Haley hadn't made contact and angrily Allan heard that he was also appearing in Chester, about thirty miles from Liverpool. Haley was planning to drive over to the Cavern after that gig. Allan blew a gasket: "He would probably have arrived after it was closed. So I hurtled over to Chester early evening and demanded to know what his game was. I wasn't gonna take any shit just because of his name. "He told me it would be okay and he would be at the Cavern by 9.30pm or 10.00pm at the latest. 'Stuff that', I told him. The bloody Cavern is damn well more important that this dump in Chester. You can piss off. You are cancelled, mate'. I stormed out leaving him gobsmacked. "Mind you, it was just as well really, as I'd not sold any tickets. The place would have been empty. I'd forgotten to publicise the show. I drove back to Liverpool heaving a sigh of relief. Bill Haley never knew."

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Pip! Pip!

For the record a few alternative sources: The Beatles Anthology, copyright Apple Corps 2000, Cassell The Man Who Gave the Beatles Away, Williams and Marshall, 1975 Elm Tree Liverpool Wondrous Place, Paul Du Noyer, 2002 Virgin Many Years from Now, Barry Miles, 1998 Vintage Johnny Gentle and the Beatles, 1998 Merseyrock Brian Epstein, Ray Coleman, 1990 Penguin A Cellarful of Noise, Brian Epstein, 1964 New English Library Beatle: The Pete Best Story, Best & Doncaster, 1985 Plexus The Best of Fellas, Spencer Leigh, 2002 Drivegreen Beatles Guide to Hamburg, Ulf Kruger, 2001 Europa Verlag The Love You Make, Brown & Gaines, 1983 McGraw Hill The Encyclopaedia of Beatles People, Bill Harry, 1997 Blandford Love Me Do, the Beatles Progress, Michael Brawn, 1995 Penguin Stuart Sutcliffe, Pauline Sutcliffe, 2001 Sidgwick & Jackson Plus various cuttings library references in the Liverpool Echo and Daily Post, the Daily Mirror, the Daily Mail, the defunct Daily Herald and a string of newspapers across the world including the Toronto Globe, the New York Times, Pravda, The Day, New London, Connecticut; Asbury Park Press, New York; Norwich Bulletin, USA, The Chicago Tribune; Boston Globe, The Straits Times Singapore.

THE END