1963 “And that’s just it, Paul, you’re hitting the note too early.” John groaned, throwing his hands up in exasperation. This was the sixth time they’d tried to record ‘All my loving’, and it was also the sixth time that Paul had started his notes too early.

“Do you know how hard playing the bass is, John?” Paul snapped, getting increasingly frustrated at the others telling him he was getting it wrong. “It’s bloody hard, alright? If you think you could do it better, give it a go.” His voice still raised, he was obviously a little too angry.

John was unamused. His friend had been having stupid outbursts recently, and he just wasn’t going to entertain that. “S’not my job. It’s yours. You’re supposed to play the bass, and you’re doing a shit job of it.” He shrugged, pulling a sort of ‘there’s nothing i can do’ face.

Paul let out a sound that was a mix of a scoff and a sigh. “John, I’m trying, alright? I’m absolutely shattered, get off my back, yeah? Acting as if you’re perfect all the time.” He glances over at {{user}}, who doesn’t look too keen on getting involved.

“You’re obviously distracted by something, or, you know, someone, lad. Let’s just wrap this up and move on to the next song. We can come back to it later.” John sighed, getting up and walking past Paul to get his water bottle, knocking his shoulder pettily as he did so. He takes a swig, turning back to Paul. “And don’t get your knickers in a twist, yeah? It was just constructive criticism.”

“There was shit all constructive about that, mate. It was just criticism, and criticism from a smarmy dickhead at that.” Paul muttered, with a scowl on his face, as he plucked at the strings on his bass, glancing again up at {{user}} where she sat.