1 Comment

  1. Neil Crud
    December 10, 2009 @ 8:33 pm

    I was 14 years-old, and enduring my paper-round weaving through Colomendy Estate in Denbigh, it was cold, dark and raining. Tied to the front of my bike was an ‘Action Man’ radio (waterproof you see!) – the 7am news announced that John Lennon had been shot dead in New York.
    I pulled the brakes on my bike, coming to a sudden halt. Quite stunned, I took off my paper-sack and threw it and the contents over a wall. I rode home and told my mother the news, she stayed in bed and didn’t go to work that day.
    The Beatles and John Lennon meant nothing to me, hey I was (am) a punk rocker! But I guess the subliminal force feeding that my parents unwittingly did to me since I was born in 1966 affected me more than I consciously realised.
    My first ever words were Hey Jude…


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