Norm
MalSir Paul McCartney’s Divorce Court statement.
Heather Mills listens disinterestedly to Sir Paul's statement in court.
Your Honour,
Do you want to know a secret for the benefit of Mr Kite and the other jurors? What was typical of a day in the life of Heather and I, before the end, before her ‘revolution 9 (at last count), before the taxman, when we were in a ‘love me do’ mood? Don’t let me down, Your Honour. Don’t say ‘You can’t do that.’ or act like a Mean Mr Mustard. Hold onto your Maxwell’s silver hammer. You know what to do.
When I belonged to the Lonely Heart’s Club, I used to drive my car eight days a week, any time at all. Sometimes to nowhere, man, or on the long and winding road past the fool on the hill to Penny Lane where there’s a place I pray to Lady Madonna. Sometimes alone. Sometimes with a little help from my friends. It seems like yesterday when I saw her [Heather ] standing there with the local postman, Judas, being chased by a dog until he said, ‘Hey bulldog,’ and it ran off, cocked its leg on some Norwegian wood. Then I saw Heather Jude, come together. He grabbed a handful of her octopus’s garden intent on going the magical mystery tour on her rocky raccoon. He wanted a bit of rock n roll music. I heard her say, ‘Please Mr Postman, leave my kitten alone. Let it be.’ Then ‘Help!’ I got out. I was scared. I felt like I was back in the USSR. I began to shout, “Hey, Jude! I’ll get you!” Jude ran off. Hello, goodbye?
I should have known better than to think, ‘got to get you into my life,’ about Heather. ‘Act naturally or run for your life,’ I said to myself. But a little voice said, ‘She loves you.’ So, I turned to her, and said, ‘I want to tell you I want to hold your hand, I want to be your man’ I said, ‘I’ll give you all my loving and I’ll keep you satisfied. We can work it out when I’m 64.” She said, she said, ‘It won’t be long before you’re 70.’ Her hair was a mess. ‘Lend me your comb,’ she said. So I did. It disappeared in her hair. I said, ‘You’re going to lose that, girl.’ She said, ‘Baby you’re a rich man. One comb won’t matter.’ I should have known then she was a ‘Money. That’s what I want’ type.
A local druggie on LSD known to Heather as Elizabeth-Michelle was crashed out on the pavement. ‘I am the walrus,’ she kept saying. ‘You make me dizzy miss LIzzy-Mitch,” Heather said. Are you on drugs?’ I asked her. ‘I’m only sleeping,’ she said. ‘I’m so tired.’ ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah,’ I said. ‘That’s alright mama,’ Heather said, so I let it be.
A blackbird flew overhead. I looked up. The clouds looked like strawberry fields, forever and ever and ever, making patterns like my ex parachuting girlfriend Lucy in the sky with diamonds on. They began to scatter. ‘Here comes the sun,’ I said. ‘Want to catch the train? I’ve got a ticket to ride the Helter Skelter at Brighton. I’ll buy you a hippy hippy shake or a yellow submarine from the Twist & Shout ice-creamery. ‘Are you asking me if ‘I’ll follow the sun?’ I nodded. ‘Why don’t we do it in the road? Please, please me? There’s no reason you’ve got to hide your love away. Then she undid my zipper and to use a local Liverpudlian expression, came in through the bathroom window, and I got a touch of the cry-baby-cry ‘while my guitar gently weeps in my eyes. It wasn’t even my birthday. All she said was, ‘Happiness is a warm gun, Ob-la-di, Ob-la-da, your honour. The end.
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