September 3, 5:02pm. Indianapolis, Indiana. Press Conference.
We all sat in front of a load of reporters, microphones in front of us. This was probably the worst part of being a Beatle: daft reporters.
The first question was asked, a political one of course.
"Where do you gentlemen stand as far as the draft is concerned in England?" John quickly piped up with a joke.
"About five eleven." I snorted in laughter, hearing the others laugh as well. Maybe this conference wouldn't be too bad.
The first question was asked, a political one of course.
"Where do you gentlemen stand as far as the draft is concerned in England?" John quickly piped up with a joke.
"About five eleven." I snorted in laughter, hearing the others laugh as well. Maybe this conference wouldn't be too bad.