The band was terrible. There were no two ways about it. The racket they were making would be enough to drive a deaf man into the blizzard that was building up outside. Noel slurped the top off his beer and sat back in his bar chair, watching the bubbles fizz inside the glass. His hand around it looked gnarled and dirty, the hand of an old man who had laboured his whole life, rather than the hand of a 26-year-old lad.
The band on the make shift stage at the back of the pub finished their song, and thrashed their way into the next one; out of time with each other, but none of them paying particular attention to what the others were doing anyway. The lead singer turned and ambled up to his microphone, dripping in self-confidence, looking out at Noel over the top of his decidedly unseasonable sunglasses. He bent down to the mic instead of lifting it to his mouth and proceeded to yell his way through the lyrics.
Noel sighed, wondering how much longer he would have to be subjected to this. He could have said no, he could have gone out with his mates instead, up to the town. The pubs would have been packed with birds up for it. But his curiosity had finally gotten the better of him, leading him to a dingy little backstreet boozer, and on Christmas Eve of all nights. Still, if they wrapped it up soon he could still make a night of it.
The band finished, or at least broke down. Noel clapped his hands perfunctabliy.
“Alrigh’, this is our last un,” slurred the singer, Liam, as the lead guitarist attempted the introduction. Noel rolled his eyes as Liam missed his cue but launched into the middle of the verse anyway, “When the sun sheee-ines…” he shouted, elongating the word more than was necessary.
When the band reached the end, with Liam’s garbled attempt at the backwards vocal, Noel stood to leave, promptly sitting down again as his younger brother lolloped his way over.
“Well?” he asked, sitting down opposite Noel, “Whatcha reckon then?”
Noel considered his answer. Not only was this the first time Liam had taken an interest in music, it was more or less the only time he had taken more than a passing interest in anything.
“That’s our signature tune,” Liam continued, “Rain, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Noel said. His brother looked at him earnestly, Noel’s opinion was obviously important to him. Though it never has been before, he thought wryly. Still, perhaps this was the start of something for Liam, if only the motivation to get off his fat arse.
“Well?” Liam said again, impatiently.
Noel shook his head, “Fuckin’ shite, man,” he said.
John kicked at the heater on the dashboard and leant forward; rubbing his hands in front of the whisper of warm air it gave out.
“D’yer mind?” Ringo said testily from the drivers seat.
“Yeah,” John snapped back, “Yeah, I bloody well do mind.” He looked down at his red hands, crippled with the cold, “These,” he said holding them up in front of his face, “are my living, look at ‘em! How am I gonna play guitar like this?”
“Would you give it a rest, John?” Paul said from the back of the car.
John leaned back in his seat and kicked the heater again. “Doesn’t… fuckin’… work…” he said, punctuating each word with a kick.
“S’no wonder with idiots like you booting it every minute,” Ringo said, turning on the car’s fog lights and rubbing the screen in front of him.
“Shuddup, Ritch, this is all your fault anyway,” John said moodily, wrapping his arms around him, half for emphasis and half to try to keep warm.
“My fault?!” the drummer said, taking umbrage, “Yeah, yeah, sorry, it is all my fault, isn’t it?” he continued sarcastically, “It’s my fault Brain wouldn’t let us go home til the very last minute, it’s my fault the airport was closed, oh, yeah, and its definitely my fault there’s a blizzard blowing out there!”
“It’ll be nice,” Paul said brightly, “There’ll be snow for Christmas.”
“I meant…” John said slowly, “it’s you’re fault that the bloody heater doesn’t work, because you can’t bloody MOT your car properly.”
“Oh sorry, John. Sorry for driving you all the way up to Liverpool on Christmas Eve! I can’t even see further than two foot in front of me!” he added, rubbing the screen again.
“It’ll look like a Christmas card tomorrow morning,” Paul continued, sitting behind Ringo.
“That’s if we make it,” Ringo replied.
“We’ll make it,” Paul said, checking his watch, “It’s only half eight, we can’t be that far away now?”
“I meant, if we make it at all,” Ringo said, “At this rate, we might crash into a snow drift and never be seen again.”
“We should have got Alf to take us,” John mumbled.
“It’s Christmas Eve,” Ringo said, “No one’s working, not even for The Beatles.” He glanced up into rear view mirror at his back seat passengers. “Alright, George?” he asked, looking at him sitting next to Paul, bundled up in his overcoat, hat, scarf and gloves.
George didn’t reply. His eyes were closed.
“He’s asleep,” Paul said.
“How can he sleep when it’s this cold?” Ringo said.
“He can’t,” George replied, clearing his throat and opening his eyes, “but he’s trying to, so he can get away from you bunch of bickering kids.”
Ringo shook his head, “Who rattled your cage, eh, Harrison?”
“You did,” Paul reminded him, grinning.
“Christ, if it’s not John whinging and kicking the dashboard, then its you whinging and shouting at him, or its Paul with his, “Ooh, isn’t it lovely? Isn’t it pretty?””
“Well, it is,” Paul said simply.
“It’s not,” George said, “It’s only lovely and pretty from the window of some warm front room, with a raging fireplace and a glass of brandy. From the paper thin pane of glass in the back of Ringo’s car in the middle of God knows where, freezing my tits off, its ugly and nasty and horrible.” George closed his eyes again, signalling the end of his speech.
Paul shrugged at no one, “C’mon, its Christmas Eve! Aren’t you excited?”
George opened his eyes again only to give him a withering look.
“Its Christmas day tomorrow! Santa’s coming tonight!” Paul giggled like a small, over excited child.
‘Not for you, he ain’t,” John said to him, “I know for a fact you’ve been very bad this year.”
“Yeah, well, he doesn’t know that,” Paul replied.
“Yeah, he does, he knows who’s naughty and he knows who’s nice…”
Paul smiled broadly, “He’s making a list, he’s checking it twice…” Paul sang loudly.
“Well done, you’ve set him off again!” Ringo said morosely.
“Well, the radio’s broken as well, isn’t it?” John said.
“He knows who’s naughty and he knows who’s nice…”
George moved stiffly to cover his ears with his gloved hands.
“Santa Claus is coming to town!” John joined Paul, both of them singing disharmoniously and off key.
“How did you two ever become number one record selling singers?” George asked.
“Shit!” Ringo said suddenly, ramming the breaks on and juddering the car to a stand still.
“What?” John said, rubbing the fogged up windscreen, “What’s the matter?”
“Look where we are,” Ringo replied, gripping the steering wheel.
John peered out, “It’s a T junction,” he said, sounding confused.
“Yeah,” Ringo nodded, “and it shouldn’t be. I’ve missed the turning.”
“What turning?”
“We’ve been going in the wrong direction for the past forty five minutes.”
“Oh for fucks…” John said.
“Fuck off, I didn’t see you bloody navigating!” Ringo said defensively.
“So where are we?” Paul asked.
“Somewhere outside Manchester.” Ringo said, scratching his forehead tensely.
“S’not so bad,” Paul said, sitting forward and gripping the seat in front of him with both hands, “We can just take a left and we’ll be home in no time.”
Ringo sighed loudly.
“Ring, take a break,” George said, “You’ve driven all the way up from London, you’re knackered, let me drive for a bit, eh?”
Ringo turned around in his chair, held back by his seat belt, “That’d be fab, George,” he said gratefully.
“Yeah, that’s what we all need, a bit of a break,” Paul said, “Stop for a minute, we can stretch our legs.”
“In this?” John asked, looking at the unrelenting snow building up on the bonnet.
“Well, I need a pee anyway,” Paul said, jumping out of his door.
“Rather you than me, mate,” John said, watching him disappear behind the hedge through Ringo’s window.
Ringo unclipped his seatbelt and switched the engine off.
“Y’wha’?” Liam demanded defensively.
Noel sat back, picking up his glass. “You asked.”
“Well, that just shows what you bloody know then,” Liam said, sounding upset, “You wouldn’t know decent music if it smacked you in the face.”
“Whatcha ask me for then?” Noel said sulkily, “There are better things I could be doing, y’know. Why didn’t you ask Paul?”
Liam rolled his eyes at the mention of their eldest brother. “Because he’s a twat and you know about stuff like this,” he said, “What you learnt off the Carpets and that.”
“I thought you just said I didn’t know ewt?”
“What d’yer reckon of Guigsy?” Liam said, changing tact.
“Who?”
“Lead guitar.”
Noel pulled his face.
“Yeah,” Liam agreed.
“And what he just did to the riff in Rain he deserves slapping for,” Noel added, Liam grinned. “Lennon’ll be turning in his grave, or at least trying to cover his ears!”
Liam put his hands over his ears absently. “So what d’yer reckon then?” he said.
Noel frowned, “I just said, fuckin’ shite…”
“Nah,” Liam shook his head, “We’re kickin’ him out, so we need a new guitar player.”
Noel paused, “The Carpets aren’t gonna…” he started.
“Not them, you,” Liam said, matter of fact.
“Me?” Noel said, genuinely surprised.
“Yeah, you’re better than him, anyway.”
High praise indeed coming from his little brother, but Noel wrinkled his nose, “No chance, mate. I am not playing with you bunch of tossers.”
Liam narrowed his eyes.
“You’ll fuckin’ flood it if you carry on like that!” John said.
“Yeah, driving advice from you,” George replied, now sitting next to him in the driving seat.
“Pull the choke out,” Ringo said from the back.
“Just… just leave it a minute,” John said. George did as he was told and folded his arms. They sat in silence. Even Paul’s optimism had become tarnished as he sat, now visibly shivering, behind George. They were still at the T-junction, as they had been for the past twenty minutes, since Ringo had turned the engine off and it had promptly refused to turn on again.
“It’s just the cold,” George said to no one in particular.
“Its not,” Ringo said, “The engines warm. It doesn’t sound as if it’s turning over properly.”
“So what are we going to do?” Paul asked, “I haven’t seen a house or a light for miles, we’re in the middle of nowhere.”
“We’ll have to call someone,” Ringo said wearily, “Get them to come and find us.”
“Who?” Paul said. Ringo looked at him blankly. What he had said earlier rang bitterly true, there was no one working on Christmas Eve, even for them. Mal and Neil were already home with their families, even Brian was spending the holiday in London with his mother.
“We’ll have to phone Mal,” John said from the front of the car, “He’ll have to come and get us, we’ll pay him triple time or somat.”
“We can’t ask him to do that,” Paul said, “It’s Christmas Night.”
“As you bloody keep saying. What do you suggest then, genius?”
Paul thought, “I don’t know. I could ring me Dad, or Mike?”
“No, I’ll call my brother,” George said, “He’s home, I think. He knows about cars and that.”
“Oh okay,” Ringo said, his voice betraying his relief.
George turned round to face him and Paul. “Where’s the nearest phone box then?”
Ringo closed his eyes, feeling the pressure building up behind them. If there’s one more thing… “I think we passed one about ten minutes ago,” he eventually replied.
“Right,” George said, “Hope I can remember the number,” he added with a weak smile. He twisted back around in his seat and undid his seat belt. Putting his hand on the cold metal door handle he paused, looking out into the darkness on the other side of the window reluctantly. “Someone come with me?” he asked, turning back to the others.
His three band mates looked at each other, no one overly enthusiastic at the idea.
“I’m not going out in that alone,” George said, pointing through the front of the car as small snowflakes drifted down onto the bonnet. “I might never be heard from again!”
“You go with him,” John said to Paul.
“Me?” Paul asked, “Why me?”
“Because this is your fault.”
“I thought it was all my fault?” Ringo murmured and then quickly hushed, not wanting to buy himself a ticket into the snow.
“You got out for a piss, and that’s why Ringo turned the engine off and thus, why George can’t get it to start again,” John said.
“Thus?!” Paul mocked, “It’s hardly my fault! It’s not like I nicked the spark plugs, is it?”
“Just go. The sooner you go, the sooner we can get out of this mess.”
“No,” Paul said defiantly and crossed his arms.
John narrowed his eyes at him, and Paul braced himself for the infamously sharp Lennon tongue.
Instead John unclipped his seatbelt and opened the passenger door, ‘C’mon George,” he said and stepped out. Paul raised his eyebrows.
George opened his door and made to follow John. “If we’re not back in half an hour…” he said, leaning back into the car, “…wait longer.”
George slammed the driver’s door and ran after John, stalking away angrily.
Ringo and Paul turned around to watch them walk away. “Reasonable as ever,” Paul said, as their band mates disappeared into the black, “He should be an international diplomat.”
