Paul McCartney and John Lennon were all very well and good, but Georgie was better. Ringo was a helluva nice guy, but the Quiet One was better. How so? Well, his Beatles works were better than all the others. Far superior, and that's the fact of the matter.

The self-appointed top dogs suppressed him all they could, only giving the poor Mr Harrison one song to their five. Ironically, his whip theirs five-to-one in terms of lyrical beauty, melodic classiness, harmonic might and thematic vision. Whatever the devil all that means. Plus, he was probably the nicest.

This was a pal who popped over to the US for a look during one of the heights of Beatlemania, only to come back dismayed, according to my former employer in the muffin restaurant.

Apparently he didn't find any "free love" or "free sex", did our good Georgie.


However, let us not be too explicit about these things in journalistic records, just in case we go down in legal ones.

Anyhow, so he liked a bird?

It just annoys me McCartney had to profess recently something along the lines of "Oh, yes he was a red-blooded male".

How dare he.

Paul was eye-twinklingly and arrogantly telling a journalist in Australia how much he liked their sheilas while he was supposedly in a committed relationship with the lovely, lovely Jane Asher during another height of Beatlemania.

The sheer nerve.

Not to mention, his writing chirpy-sounding but lyrically accusatory songs like The Night Before, I'm Looking Through You and For No One all the while he was living under her parents' roof.

The sheer nerve!


Anyhow, back to the main thrust of the experience, the music. George Harrison wrote Something, for bleeding goodness. The sublime, divine Something.

Lennon didn't write it, Paul didn't.

This majestic tune was so captivating it compelled that Bourbon Baritone Great Frank Sinatra to call it the greatest love song ever, or something thereof. That's a pretty damn sexy appraisal.

And the thing is Georgie was such a self-effacing geezer, such a nice, nice person, he unassumingly entitled the greatest song ever Something.

Nowadays Paulie boy plays the thing on ukulele, apparently. Ukulele.

Clearly Paul knows Georgie is best and thus suppresses him and his by playing Something, of all things, on a uke. This tune deserves seventeen Salieri orchestras, at the very least, whoever he is or was.


How's about it, Johnnie boy? You didn't write the unbelievable While My Guitar Gently Weeps, did you? No, you were too busy co-writing plaudits-stealing inferiors like A Day In The life with Paulie boy.

It's an unfair life when this babbling drug spiel that is the closer to Sergeant Pepper, half-sung in a whine and half-sung in a boring baritone, takes the cake, cream and gold while poor old Something is strummed non-charismatically by some odd-job on a uke and it's an ugly world when Georgie's vastly superior While My Guitar is shunted aside by some dumb comment like, "Oh, Eric Clapton played on that".

"Some people!" as Jamie Ridge once said, honestly.

Rest assured gentlemen, the first third of the song (A Day In) has an incredible melody - Johnnie's part - but Paul's part, the second-third, doesn't feature a melody, as far as I know, at all. The first third is the same as the third third as we all know. And I have musical ears so I should know. Especially during hangovers.

Don't get me wrong, both JL and PM are tremendously good composers; just not at the calibre of Georgie the Genius. Oh, and Ringo's an awful nice guy, too.