How The Beatles and Apple got me arrested..

Oh, the continuing joy of all things fab and gear. At the ripe old age of nearly 60, I am lucky enough to actually remember Beatles records coming out, from The White Album/Hey Jude period onwards, and thanks to my elder siblings playing their records on our coffin sized ‘Hi fidelity’ music centre until the grooves ran smooth, the fab sound became inextricably glued into my DNA.

Watching the new Peter Jackson Get Back film conjured up memories of a fateful day in 1977 when my adulation and general worshiping caused me and two friends to lose our freedom, ending up on a Sunday afternoon aged just 15, staring at the wrong side of a cell door.

Perhaps there should be a fan grading system from mildly interested in The Beatles to completely obsessed. I wouldn’t put myself quite in the uppermost category, but if I’m honest, I’m probably close.

It’s that need to gorge on facts and know everything there is to know – listening to every possible recording, committing to memory every ting, ping and note they ever committed to tape. The isolated bass on Something, the Moog sound uncovered on I want you by the remastering of Abbey Road – don’t get me started! Perhaps that’s what keeps Mark Lewisohn on his quest to document literally everything about the band, and incidentally, his show Hornsey Road was utterly brilliant, insightful, riveting and eye opening.

But I digress…1977 was quite a Beatles year for me and my partner in crime and (still) best friend John. We’d already travelled up to Liverpool for a Beatles convention earlier in the year, which on hindsight was pretty amateur and a bit grubby. We did meet Allan Williams, the Beatles first manager, who was trying to scrape a living, I guess, from the nostalgia bandwagon – and to be honest, who can blame him. I can clearly remember him approaching us to try and get us and the other 13 people present onto the dance floor.

Our friend Robert (who was also along for the ride) had particularly luxurious long brown hair. I can picture the look of complete embarrassment on Allan Williams face when Robert turned around after Allan tapped him on the shoulder (from behind) saying, ‘Come on sweetheart, get those boys dancing.’ Looking back, it reminds me of the look on Benny Hills face when the person he thought was a gorgeous blond-haired woman turns around and Benny finds it’s actually Bob Todd, in a blond wig, with a smile like a crossword puzzle.

The convention wasn’t all we’d hoped for, but I did come back with the bootleg ‘Kum Back’ which I later learned was taken from the acetate Glynn Johns produced from the recordings amassed during the filming of Let it Be, and we managed to get served in The Grapes, but Matthew Street was by then little more than a slum.

Fast forwarding a few months to late spring, John and I came up with the brilliant idea of travelling up to London on the tube from the outer suburbs where we lived, with a view to securing what we considered to be one of the ultimate pieces of Beatles memorabilia – the doorknob from 3 Savile Row. I should make clear that we were by no means ‘bad boys.’ Both from middle class families, neither of us had been in any sort of trouble, apart from when I got caught shoplifting scouring pads from Sam’s cheap shop in Buckhurst Hill. Why scouring pads? I have no idea, and clearly I didn’t have that deviousness and cunning a good criminal needs.

We hatched a plan, deciding that the best time to carry out our ‘heist’ was a Sunday afternoon, as it was likely to be quiet. Of course, we’d need a lookout (even though you can clearly see all the way up and down Savile Row) so telephoned (ye olde landline, obv) our friend Kevin, which on hindsight, turned out to be not the strongest part of the plan.

Kevin wasn’t really a Beatles fan, but had the qualification of always being up for ‘a laugh,’ so he was in. Planning meetings were convened about what equipment we might need, and I decided we should go equipped with a bag of my Dads best (and most treasured) tools. The bag weighed a ton, which considering it was full of various screwdrivers, hammers (club and claw), adjustable spanners, pliers and chisels, wasn’t a surprise.

Just in case I’d missed anything, John also filled an old gas mask bag (we liked Army surplus in those days) with a selection of his Dads tools. Bolts, screws, nails, or rivets - we had the equipment and technology to overcome anything standing in the way of our quest.

We met Kevin at Buckhurst Hill station, and after stocking up on filling removing Poppets from the platform machine, caught the train to the West End, slightly nervous, but full of anticipation and excitement about how brilliant it was going to be when we were in possession of something they actually touched – the ultimate piece of memorabilia. John and I would be joint custodians, keeping it for a month at a time before passing it over to be looked after and worshipped. We’d also be able to sell it when we were grown up, and at least buy a house each from the proceeds.

After a long rattle along the Central line, we alighted at Bond Street, got a bit lost (remember, only A-Z maps back then, if you had one, which we didn’t) to finally turn the corner from Vigo Street into the road that meant so much to us. It was a warm afternoon – tee shirt weather, and there seemed to be hardly anyone around, which being 1977 when everything still closed on a Sunday, was very much in our favour.

John and I couldn’t help running ahead, and three buildings down, stood in awe looking up at what had been the headquarters of The Beatles empire for a few short years. The smashed windows, graffiti, and semi dereliction didn’t matter to us – this was Beatles central.

Being pre internet, all we knew had been gleaned from a few books, watching Let it Be, and old copies of Beatles monthly, but we knew just about all there was to know about, what was for us, our very own Camelot. We sat on the steps we’d seen them bounding up, leant against the same railings the Apple scruffs had leant against, tried the padlocked gate which lead down the steps to where the recording studio had been, and of course, ran our hands around the doorknob, that doorknob.

With the benefit of hindsight and of course Google, I now know that Apple finally relinquished the lease in 1976, and it was rumoured Neil Aspinall had the original door removed just before they gave up the building, but I only know that fact forty-four years later, and I’m still not convinced. The doorknob looked exactly the same as in the film, and in the photos. We knew these sorts of details, and believed without doubt we were looking at the original.

I remember we sat on the steps for quite a while, drinking our surroundings and Tizer in. This was only seven years on from the split, but when that’s half your lifetime, it felt like a hundred. We wanted to savour just being in the same place as our heroes, imagining that something from them, if not their spirits, was still somehow adhered to the railings we were holding and the well-worn steps we were perched on.

Either John or I then had a good idea, like 15-year-old Beatle nuts do. We both looked up and knew where we were going first, before executing our crime.

I can’t remember exactly how we did it, but being fearless young bucks, we found a route up to the roof. How great would it be, we thought, to stand exactly where the final live performance was filmed, to look down at the street below and imagine all the people looking up in 1969. Perhaps we might find a dropped plectrum or a fag butt one of them smoked – this was the way our teenage brains worked - life was full of imagine if moments.

I’m pretty sure we shinned up a drainpipe at the back of the building and worked our way up the five floors via fire escapes until we got onto the roof. Not many words passed between John and I, the pair of us being too awestruck at being on, what was for us, sacred ground. Kevin wasn’t taking it as seriously as us, which was a bit annoying, but he could be forgiven, as not being a super fan, he just didn’t get it.

We established where the stage had been, didn’t find anything, got shouted at by someone unseen from a nearby window and made a rapid descent back to terra firma. Shudders go through my body now thinking of the danger and certain death had we put a foot wrong, but we didn’t. Risk assessments to a spotty stroppy teenager were as likely as a tidy bedroom.

Returning to the steps, we waited a short while just in case the authorities had been called, considering ourselves pretty streetwise to think of that, which of course we weren’t – we were slightly spoiled children from the suburbs, not inner city ducking and diving hard nuts.

Kevin, who had he been born in medieval times would have been known as Kevin the unsubtle was instructed to alert us if anyone appeared around the corner, even though we could see anyway. John and I then set about conducting a cursory examination of the rounded brass doorknob about the size of a grapefruit. After an initial attempt at hand twisting it, we realised it was fixed with more than a degree of permanency. No matter - after coming all this way there was no point in rushing things, having decided that once we’d got it off, we’d immediately leave the scene of the crime and head home, and we wanted to savour the moment.

Time was on our side, so I decided that whilst we were there, I’d try and have a peep through the windows of what had been the basement recording studio, hoping to catch a glimpse of a piece of long forgotten equipment or a guitar left leaning against a wall, which of course was just another of our ridiculous imagine if moments.

The gate to the stairs leading down was padlocked, but for a nimble teenager, posed no meaningful barrier. Placing my foot in Johns interlocked hands, I was over in a jiffy. John meanwhile stood at the railings repeatedly asking if I could see anything, even though I’d only been down there for approximately ten seconds. Kevin the unsubtle remained sitting on the steps scouring up and down the street for trouble.

And then trouble found us, thanks entirely to Kevin. What I couldn’t see from my subterranean level, and which John didn’t notice as his head was pushed between the railings asking me what I could see, was a Policewoman rounding the corner into Savile Row, approximately thirty metres from our position.

Had Kevin remained seated and just whispered a warning out the corner of his mouth, I have no doubt things would have turned out differently. As it was, he jumped up shouting ‘Barney, it’s the Police’ then sat immediately back down, trying to look casual. He might have even started whistling a tune, like a cartoon character would do with their hands clasped behind their back, but I can’t be sure now.

I immediately tried a cupboard door, and much to my amazement, found it unlocked – sanctuary, and also maybe one of the Beatles might have gone in there at some point, so from my point of view, it was a win-win situation. I was technically inside Apple headquarters.

I stood perfectly still, trying to be as quiet as possible inside the cupboard, but could hear every word said at street level. John had clearly joined Kevin on the steps, making the worlds worst attempt at two people pretending they were just resting.

Perhaps it was the resulting trauma, but I can remember the exact words spoken from that moment onwards, and the feeling of intense fear as adrenaline coursed through my entire body – that horrible childhood feeling when you know you’ve done something really bad and are about to get found out.

‘What are you lot up to then?’

‘Nothing.’ I pictured them both looking down studying something on the pavement.

‘What about your mate?’

‘What mate.’

‘The one down there in the basement.’

‘We haven’t got a mate in the basement.’

I then heard footsteps and a female voice saying, ‘Don’t you two move.’

Seconds later the same voice called down to me. ‘Are you going to come out then.’

I stood quietly shaking, sweating, and reciting ‘ohmygodohmygodohmygod’ over and over in my head. Sheepishly I emerged from the cupboard, knowing any further attempt at hiding was futile.

I clearly recall telling her I hadn’t broken in or anything, and that we were all Beatles fans and just wanted to see where their recording studio had been.

‘Hmm..come on up and don’t even think about running away,’ which we hadn’t thought about until she’d mentioned about running away.

I climbed back up and joined the other two on the step she was pointing at. Looking back, I’m not sure she even had a radio – I certainly don’t remember her using one, but I do remember she was the smallest Police officer I’d ever seen in my life – a tiny slip of a girl.

We were then informed that she would be taking us down to West End Central Police station (right at the other end of Savile Row) and again, instructed not to run away, which we’d forgotten about until she reminded us.

Of course, being fit young teenagers, we could have easily done just that, and she wouldn’t have stood a chance, but we weren’t bad boys, and this was our first brush with the law, so we diligently followed her down the entire length of Savile Row with our bags of tools and into the Police station.

The sense of foreboding was unlike anything we’d ever experienced. The tiny police lady informed the custody Sergeant that she’d found me hiding in the basement and the other two hanging around at street level. The custody Sergeant asked us what was in the bags, and it was me that said, ‘Tools, we were going to take the doorknob as we’re Beatles fans and didn’t think anyone would mind as the building’s empty. Sorry’

Why oh why I didn’t think on my feet and say we’d found the bags just prior to the Police lady finding us, I’ll never know, apart from the fact that we didn’t think like criminals, as we weren’t criminals per se. Technically we were committing the offence of ‘going equipped to steal’ and I’d just made a full and frank confession, completely implicating the others as joint conspirators.

This is all a long time ago now, but if memory serves me right, we were all locked up in the same cell. Three young guns deeply depressed that they’d ruined their lives and were clearly going to prison for a long time.

Because of our age, we couldn’t be interviewed without an adult present, which was when our hearts found a way to sink lower than we would have ever thought possible – our parents needed to be telephoned - I had to swallow a bit of sick back down.

Now, I can’t speak for the other two sets of parents, but I’m fairly confidant my Dad would have sunk two or three pints at lunchtime, gone back for one of Mums slap up roasts and a couple of glasses of wine, and be settling himself in front of the telly with a brandy to watch The big match on ITV, and maybe a snooze. I cannot even begin to imagine his reaction and the amount of swear words when he was informed his son was in custody at West End Central, and could he drive up now so they could interview me.

None of us spoke much in the cell – a few glances exchanged perhaps, but we felt like condemned men (boys) awaiting the call to the gallows.

Hours passed and then we heard voices. The cell door swung open to the sight of my Mum and Dad, plus Johns parents but not Kevins, who evidently couldn’t be contacted. I’m pretty sure I cried a bit at that point, seeing the storm clouds brewing on my Dads face.

We were interviewed individually, but collectively told the officers the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. The Beatles were our favourite all time group and seeing as the building was now empty and partially derelict, we thought we’d steal the doorknob as a souvenir. The irony is, we never actually got round to a proper attempt after our initial attempted hand twist.

My recollection of the rest of that day is lost in time. I’m confidant I didn’t get any dinner and after apologising for the thousandth time, went to my bedroom and didn’t come out until school the next day.

Looking back, I think the rozzers knew then that the best lesson was to keep us sweating for a couple of months before we had to return to the Police station to learn our fate. Are we talking Borstal? Prison? We feared the very worst of the worst and I don’t mind admitting it totally ruined my summer.

The Police said they were hanging on to the tools, I assumed, for the impending court case at the Old Bailey, and told us we would be summoned back once they’d completed their enquiries, which with hindsight, were actually complete already.

We didn’t see a lot of Kevin after that, perhaps because it wasn’t ‘the laugh’ he’d been expecting when he agreed to accompany us. John and I went on a camping holiday to Guernsey that summer with Crusaders, a church boys group we belonged to, not really enjoying it at all as we had the weight of the world on our backs and the immediate future in front of us uncertain. I took up smoking, and we also heard that Elvis had died, but as he wasn’t a Beatle, and was really old at 42, it didn’t bother us that much.

We got back home from Guernsey to be informed that a date had been set to face the music and discover our fate. The long and short of it was, we got a massive bollocking from an Inspector, were told not to be so stupid, and that we could have killed ourselves climbing up onto the roof. With a flea in our collective ears, we were sent on our way, relieved that we had been given a second chance.

I expect the officers concerned had a jolly good laugh at our exploits, safe in the knowledge that they were unlikely to see us again, having given us the fright of out lives. Unfortunately, neither John’s Dad or mine saw the funny side, as they never got their tools back.

As a sort of postscript - and this just shows the utterly bizarre madness of coincidence, decades later I met a high-ranking Police officer socially - a Commander. I don’t know how it even came up in our conversation, but I recounted the story of my only brush with the law, and told him about that fateful Sunday afternoon, and remember him really smiling. He then told me his name was David Kendrick, and that as a young Sergeant, he’d made his way to the roof of Apple and told The Beatles to stop playing live for the very last time.