 Air France called me on the phone one day and asked if I wanted to take a free trip to Europe. “Sure,” I said, “What do I have to do?” “Oh,” they replied, “nothing much, just chaperone a bunch of teenagers.” Well, since I had created IN magazine, one of the world’s first teenage publications, I figured that would be a snap. Just a normal days work. Little did I know.
The trip turned out to be anything but normal. For starters, there were 21 boys on this junket and two girls. Need I say more? Well, anyway, I sat down with the folks at Air France and planned the itinerary. They wanted me to pick people, places and things of interest to teenagers. I tagged the group “The Mod Squad,” way before the television show by the same name ever hit the tube.
We went to London, Paris, Switzerland, Venice, Rome, Germany, Amsterdam, Volendam, and Markem. We hit all the usual tourist attractions like the London Tower, the Roman Coliseum, the Leaning Tower of Pisa, took a boat ride down the canals of Venice and rode in a ski lift to a remote Swiss mountain resort.
In Amsterdam we toured the Anne Frank house, which left some in my group stunned and somber. In London, Twiggy and famed designer Robert Duncan-Begg took us on a tour of the fabled Carnaby St. garment district. But, it was the trip to the little bistro where the Beatles were playing that left everybody speechless. I don’t remember the name of the club, but I remember the Beatles. We also saw the British group the Turtles, but Paul, Ringo, John and George were the guys who wowed everybody.
When I came back to the states, I wrote a column about our trip to Europe and some of the things that impressed the teenagers. When I focused on the Beatles, I said they were certainly unique (we had no entertainment group quite like them at that time in America), but I thought they should stick to their music and forget the hype about all that kooky religious stuff they were experiencing with the Maharishi. My point was, they were entertainers, they should leave the scriptural hocus pocus to the clergymen. After all, they were influencing young minds everywhere with their daily rituals.
As expected, I received quite a bit of fan mail over the article. Beatle fans from all over the world flooded the Dallas Morning News mailbags with cards and letters telling me, in no uncertain terms, that I was not only wrong to criticize the Beatles, I had no business commenting on the Beatles music or their lifestyle.
Obviously, I couldn’t reply to all those letters, so I opted, instead, to write a column devoted to the comments of Beatle fan clubs everywhere who had penned a letter to me supporting their young mop-topped heroes. One day, as I was sorting through the mail, I received a phone call from British actress Jane Asher. She said she would be in America in a coupla weeks, touring with the British Old Vic (a very respected Brit theatrical company) and would like to have lunch with me.
 I had never seen Jane perform, but knew of her through television and her brother, musician Peter Asher, whom I had once interviewed. What she neglected to tell me on the phone was that she was dating Paul McCartney (this was prior to Linda Eastman entering the picture) and that he had insisted that she wrangle a dinner date with me so she could tell me how enraged he was about some of the stuff I had written about the Beatles.
We went to lunch at the posh Zodiac Room, at Neiman-Marcus. After the usual autograph signings and photographs were out of the way, I asked her about the Old Vic tour. We talked for hours about “life upon the wicked stage” and how much the Brits loved theatre as opposed to the popularity of movies in America.
During the course of the conversation, she mentioned the McCartney incident, and said that he would appreciate it if I wrote something positive about the Beatles, instead of the negative copy I had produced after the European tour. Then, she asked me if I’d ever seen the Old Vic perform before. I told her I had not, and she immediately volunteered to secure me some complimentary tickets for the Dallas performance.
I must tell you I’ve met a lot of actresses during my show biz writing tenure, and most of them have turned out to be phonies. Not so with Jane Asher. I was captivated with her charm and intelligence, and told her, quite frankly, that young Paul was quite a lucky chap to be dating such a talented celebrity as she.
Eventually, I returned to the office, determined to get down to the business at hand and write my regular column. I wondered, should I write about the Beatles, again, and perhaps soften my previous stance? Would that placate Paul and make his fans happy?
 Frankly, I didn’t think about it very long. I wrote my column in about 15 minutes, and it was all about my luncheon with Jane Asher. I didn’t write a thing about Paul or the Beatles. In fact, I didn’t even mention them. When the paper was published, I mailed a copy of my column to Jane out of courtesy, not realizing, at the time, what was in store for me.
A coupla years later, after I had left the Morning News and become senior editor of ‘TEEN magazine in Hollywood, I had a phone call in my office from a PR buddy of mine at Capitol Records. “Hey, guy,” he said, “An old friend of yours is in my office and wants to say hello to you.”
”Okay, I said, “put him on the line.” I waited for what seemed like an eternity, listening to one of those Musak-sounding music things and finally this dude with a British accent spoke up, right in the middle of the Beatles’ “Hard Day’s Night.”
 “I say, ol’ chap,” he said, “remember me? It’s Paul. Paul McCartney.” Sure, I thought, my PR friend was playing another of his practical jokes on me. So I said nothing, and simply listened to the voice on the phone. “Me and John are in Hollywood,” he explained, “to transact the distributorship deal of our new Apple label with Capital Records, and I thought maybe we could have lunch.” And, then ,he stuck it to me. “Jane Asher sez you are one mighty fine dinner companion.”
After my Capital Records buddy re-assured me the bloke on the other end of the line was really Paul McCartney, we made plans to have lunch at Steffanino’s, which, at the time, was Frank Sinatra’s favorite restaurant.
I must admit, I was a little awed by the opportunity to have lunch with McCartney, particularly since I had incurred his wrath by not writing favorably about him, and figured it wouldn’t be a bad idea to spring a little surprise on him. So, I asked one of my assistants, Sandy Roberts, a former Miss Teenage America, to accompany me to the luncheon.
“You wanna go have lunch with Paul McCartney of the Beatles?” I asked rather nonchalantly. “Oh, sure,” she said, “just let me run to the powder room for a second and I’ll be right with you.” Then, she motioned for me to follow her over to the water cooler.
“You don’t have to lie to me about Paul McCartney to ask me to do lunch,” she said, “besides, I’ve never been to Steffanino’s and I hear lots of famous stars go there.” I assured her this was not a trick. Paul McCartney had called the office and invited me to have lunch with him. Finally, she agreed to tag along, a little perturbed, I think, that I had resorted to such devious behavior.
When we arrived at Steffanino’s, the luncheon crowd was normal – busy, busy, busy. We were lucky my PR friend had good connections and had made reservations, because when they waltzed us right in, I saw lots of stars standing in line outside, more than a little perturbed that they were being ignored in the process.
We sat there in the private room waiting for Paul and the PR guy to arrive for almost 45 minutes. Sandy kept pointing out stars who were arriving at VIP tables, but kept shaking her head and giving me the old evil eye, like, “I told you so. Paul will be a no show.”
I was about to excuse myself to make a phone call, when in walked Mr. McCartney, looking every bit the childish superstar everybody has seen on the record albums and in magazines all over the world. He ignored a number of Hollywood celebrities and came straight over to our table and shook my hand. Then, I introduced him to Sandy.
I referred to her as “a former Miss Teenage America.” To which Paul graciously replied, “Well, I say, now, I have never met a teenage has been before.” Then he bowed, slightly, took her hand and kissed it on the top, as only the British lads can do. I thought Sandy was gonna faint right on the spot. Instead, she politely excused herself to go to the ladies room.
 While she was gone, Paul leaned over the table and whispered to me that he was a little perturbed I had written my whole column about Jane Asher and had neglected to mention him at all. And then he said, “I guess maybe I will have to give you a scoop story in order to get your attention.” That’s when he told me he was leaving the Beatles and forming his own band.
“John and I have been having words,” he told me, “we’re not on the same page anymore, and, then there’s the Yoko thing. There’s too much tension and confusion. I think it’s best to part company.”
I looked at him bewildered, wondering if he was putting me on, or if he was serious. “I’m really serious about this, ol’ chap,” he said, reading my mind. “I want a band of my own. What do you think about a band named Wings?”
“Wings,” I replied, “Yeah, that’s a good name.” Considering the circumstances, I dared not be negative at a time like this. “You know, mate,” McCartney continued, “Beatles crawl, but Wings fly.”
Need I say more? Paul had, indeed, caught my attention. I immediately excused myself from the table, and almost ran to the public telephone in the men’s room. Five minutes later, I broke the story world-wide about the Beatles bust-up.
Oh, there had been rumors about John and Paul not getting along, and Paul resenting Yoko’s presence, but I don’t think anyone really thought the Beatles would break up. After all, they were the mega group in the world at the time, outdistancing the Rolling Stones and others who were changing the music scene around the globe – particularly in America.
When I returned to the table, Paul was all smiles. I’m not sure if it was because my former Miss Teenage America friend had charmed him, or if it was because, finally, he had fully captured my attention.
“Did you say something nice about me this time?” he wanted to know. When I assured him I had, he replied, “About time, mate. About time.” Then he put his arm on my shoulder and grinned. “Thank you, mate,” he said. “I’ll do me best to make you proud.”
My teenage beauty couldn’t wait to get back to the office and tell everybody she had, indeed, had lunch with Paul McCartney. Oh, by the way, she told me later she didn’t take a bath for about a week. There was no way, she said, she was going to submerge her hand in the soapsuds. After all, it wasn’t every day a gal had her hand kissed by Paul McCartney.
Well, that’s show biz, baby
DON ALY’S HOLLYWOOD
“The trouble with Hollywood morals is they don’t have any.”
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