Why I’m Glad I Got Kicked Out of The Beatles
By Pete Best
Nobody ever believes me when I say this, but getting thrown out of the Beatles right before they hit it big was a blessing. Thrown out for being too handsome, by the way. That’s a fact. They were threatened by me looks. You know how they always called Paul “the cute one”? Ol’ Bestie, I was the cute one. Paul was called “The next cutest one, way after Pete,” back in the early days. I guess he didn’t fancy that title much. So they give me the heave ho. Replace me with Ringo. No chance anyone is going to call him the cute one.
All the fame and fortune that followed them, I never missed it one bit. Look where it got the boys. John ended up shot by some nut. He needed that like a hole in the head. That was the joke I used to say about that whole affair back when it happened. Fellas at the pub never cared for that joke but it’s funny. I’m not sure if that wanker gave it to him it in the head though. It’s been a long time. I use that joke about old Abe Lincoln too. Needed that like a hole in the head. It’s a good laugh. Fellas at the pub like that much better. Doesn’t come up as much.
Married to Yoko. Wouldn’t wish that on me worst enemy. I’ve been married to me Kathy over forty years now. Never sings, Kathy. Not even in the shower. Doesn’t get involved in me business at all. I’m working on replacing some wallpaper with me mates, she doesn’t come into the bathroom and start whispering in me ear, “that bloke isn’t good for you, let that one loose, wallpaper with me.” Keeps to herself. Has tea with her sister a lot. Cries a bit often. Cleansing.
George. Brain cancer. That’s not a picnic. You know what can get you brain cancer? Guilt. You fire your friend off a band because he’s too handsome, that eats at you, eats at your insides. Also syphilis. I think it killed one of those dictators. Gnaws away at the brain. Now I’m not implying George was syphed out, but the facts are the facts. By the way, I had a brain scan just a month ago. Ship shape. The part that’s supposed to be blue on that color chart thing? Nearly all blue. Beautiful. Doc said I had the brain of a twelve-year-old. That’s from living a guilt free, syph free life.
“The cute one.” He’s had a bloody good couple of years, eh? Me Kathy — with two legs of her own, I should add — didn’t marry me for the money. I know that. Feels right lovely. Sure, Sir Paul has a billion or so, less what ol’ peg leg took off him, but what else has he got? Not much. He’s a “legend,” sure, but you know why you become a legend? Because you can’t well do the stuff you did well back in the day well anymore! Legend means old geezer. Nobody calls old Pete Best a legend, and I rather like it that way. Nothing to prove, nothing to have to live up to. Sir Paul, every couple of years or so, comes out with another shitty album nobody wants to hear. I went to see his show about a year or so back, some mates and I snuck in, and all was fine when he sang the songs he did with the boys. Even the Wings songs, the fans didn’t mind. Then he says, “here’s something off me new album.” You never saw so many people leave to piss in your life. Don’t think he doesn’t notice. He’s dying inside. Misery. Do I need that? Answer: No, I do not.
Ringo has done quite all right for himself considering what he lacks in looks and talent. I never had a problem with Ringo, actually. He felt bad when he took me spot. Bought me a pint or two and took me out for some chicken one night. I didn’t care for the chicken but they served a grilled asparagus that I rather fancied. I guess Ringo felt some guilt and didn’t want it to destroy his head like it destroyed George’s. The guilt and the syph. But Ringo needn’t have worried. I was a bit cross back then, sure, but I’ve come to realize that not being a Beatle was the best thing that could’ve happened to me. Or, actually, being an ex-Beatle. Because I was a Beatle for a while. The handsomest one. That’s a fact. It’s documented.