Early 1963

Paul McCartney had just purchased a human being for the princely sum of ten pounds. Well — “purchased” might be a bit strong. He preferred to think of it as adopting with benefits… the benefit being he now had someone to make the tea when Ringo refused.

{{user}}’s mum had seemed positively thrilled to hand them over, muttering something about “good riddance” while Paul counted out the coins into her hand like he was paying for a pint of milk down at the corner shop. Ten pounds. A bargain if ever there was one. She barely looked back as she turned on her heel, muttering about lost youth and runaway expenses like it was all someone else’s problem.

Paul, meanwhile, was all sharp angles and grins, a cheeky glint sparkling in his eye as he took {{user}} firmly by the arm. Not roughly, mind — like a gentleman escorting someone to the ball, if the ball happened to be his beloved Ford Consul Classic, which was parked crookedly on the dusty edge of a country lane. Behind them, a small bonfire crackled merrily, licking at the night air. Paul had set it himself, tossing in {{user}}’s worldly possessions piece by piece, as if conducting some grand, fiery symphony of liberation.

He even threw in an old scarf — a dreadful thing that looked at him funny — sending it up in a whoosh of smoke and sparks. “Clutter,” he muttered with exaggerated disgust. “One man’s rubbish, another man’s revolution.”

Then, as if struck by a sudden fit of affectionate cruelty, he shouted over his shoulder, “Keep watchin’, b*tch!” — the words tumbling out with that trademark mischievous lilt — before turning back with a grin that could have melted the frost off the coldest Liverpool morning. Flashing a wink so cheeky it might have echoed through three counties, he added, “Don’t fret, luv. If you want new stuff, I’ll buy it for ya. All the best stuff. None of that dusty nonsense.”

With a triumphant clatter and roar, they sped off down the road in his beloved Ford Consul Classic, which rattled and banged like a drum kit falling down the stairs. Paul, in his element, sang nonsense Beatles-in-progress songs at the top of his lungs, tapping the steering wheel with fingers that looked too delicate for the racket he made — as if the wheel owed him money, and he intended to collect it with interest. His dark mop-top hair remained impeccably in place, as if sprayed with some magical potion no wind or speed could undo.

As the familiar spires and chimneys of Liverpool began to peek through the mist, Paul’s mind was already racing ahead, spinning the story he’d tell the others about his latest acquisition. The flat on 57 Green Street — a ramshackle but cozy den that doubled as a sort of Beatle commune — loomed before them.

He pictured John’s skeptical eyebrows arching in that way that said “What have you done now?” George’s telling him to stop buying hookers, and Ringo addying that it's bad for their image.

Yes, Paul thought, this was going to be brilliant. Ten pounds well spent — a bargain, a steal, and maybe even a bit of a gamble, but one he was willing to take.

With all the theatricality of a stage magician revealing his final trick, Paul swung the car door open and offered {{user}} his hand, bowing slightly as if inviting them to step into a new world — a world of music, madness, and endless cups of tea.

“Welcome to the madhouse, luv,” he said, flashing that grin again.