Beatles in my cellar

I'll admit my hearing is not the best, and when the noise first started, I thought it was the pipes. It was a booming rumble, with a constant high pitched squeal.

I tried to ignore it, but it seemed to re-occur everyday around lunch-time. This was driving me batty. I started poking round the house, trying to find what it was.

It was certainly worse downstairs, and I guessed i'd probably be able to hear it on the street. So I asked some of the teenagers standing in a queue outside my house if they could hear it.

'Yess!!! We love it !!! Woooo!!!!!'

They weren't very helpful. I popped back inside for a cup of tea, and there I wondered - why are dozens of teenagers standing in a queue outside my house?

I got my coat. I followed the queue, hundreds of them, youngsters girls, boys - all in line, heading for: my cellar door!

A burly gentleman at the door halted me.

'I'm sorry sir, there is queue, it'll be 3'6' when you reach the front'

'im not paying to get into my own cellar... and who the flip are you?

'hes getting a bit lippy this one - Darren...'

Another burly gentleman approached, and I could see I was being 'bounced' from my own garden path.

++++++++++

Obviously something was going on in my cellar, and I didn't like it. They might be able to keep me from the door, but I knew there was a down-light window round the other side. I prised it open and climbed in.

And there I saw the scene - there was an awful band playing horrible music, and girls everywhere screaming with delight.

'Oi! Oi! Stop! This is my cellar!' I called out pointlessly, lost in the din. Right, I thought, I'll have to put a stop to this. I went round to the fuse box.

With a jolt, lights went out and the music stopped. In the stunned silence I stepped up to the band.

'Right, you lot - sling your hook. That sounded atrocious - you might as well give up now, that act is never going anywhere. Go on, pack your gear up. Dancing round in front of screaming girls - honestly, that'll turn you you know. My advice is you get proper haircuts and go learn a trade. Come on, out of here!'

'But fella, this is a zeitgeist moment in post-war teenage culture. We're going to be huge!'

'Oooh, we've got little-willy wordsworth here do we? Listen baby face, you grab your plinky plonky bass guitar and take the long and winding road out of here. Go on, hop it. And you, big nose at the back - don't you point those drum sticks at me buster - I'll give you a b*y rim-shot if you're not careful

I didn't mean to hurt them, and I'm sorry that I made John cry. Once I'd got the 'The Beatles' out (honestly, couldn't even spell their own name), I still had dozens of teenagers milling about, so I called the police. They came quickly, and told me they'd had similar problems with bands across the country (they had only just finished arresting a group of 'blues purists' in Richmond).

And thanks to my doing, the Beatles remained unknown in Tomerton, for about a decade, till their records started selling on import.