Yeah Yeah Yeah (Beatles/Paul McCartney)

8. Her Majesty's A Pretty Nice Girl

October 1965
London

Paul

I spent most of the ride to the palace attempting to hide from Eppy that I was massively hungover and operating on far too little sleep. The upside was that I was in good company, as both Ringo and John looked in similarly poor shape. The downside was that George looked upbeat and annoyingly well-rested. I was desperately jealous of his foresight the previous night.

As we passed Big Ben, a familiar sound began to get louder, and I pinched the bridge of my nose in an attempt to stop my head from throbbing.

"What's that noise?" George asked.

"It's the girls... it's all the girls," John replied. I craned my neck so I could see out the windshield of his Rolls. Sure enough, thousands of birds were congregated in front of the palace gates. Dozens of bobbies were lined up in the hopes that we might be able to make it through.

"Look sharp, lads," Brian said as we plastered big smiles on our faces and waved maniacally out the windows. The noise was almost unbearable until we entered the inner courtyard and came to a halt in front of the ornate entryway. Footmen—footmen!--ushered us through the palace into the throne room, where we stood at the end of a long line of people who were much older and more dignified than us.

The energy in the room changed the moment the Queen entered. She wore a powder blue suit, a matching hat atop her perfectly-coiffed hair, and each pearl in her necklace was the size of a gobstopper. The world slowed down as I watched her walk towards the front of the line. I remembered how my dad bought our first television set back in '53 just to watch her coronation. She was much more petite in real life, which was either endearing or disappointing, but I was too out of it to decide.

"Remember to offer your right hand," John murmured under his breath. "Don't listen to the equerry who said to use your left one."

"Shut your pie hole, Lennon," Ringo hissed out of the side of his mouth. We'd long perfected the art of maintaining friendly smiles while quietly insulting one another.

"Just don't turn your backs on her, for the love of God," Brian muttered. He stood just behind us wearing a black suit and white shirt identical to ours, making him look like the fifth Beatle, which, really, he was.

"Wouldn't dream of it, Bri," I replied. "And 'ma'am' rhymes with 'mum,' right?"

We were quiet for a moment, appropriately solemn looks on our faces. I felt a bit nauseous and really could have done with a steadying cup of tea. Alice's voice filled my head: I hear she doesn't bite. I wondered what she was doing at that moment, which continent she was flying over.

"Are we sure they wanted us here?" John whispered. "Maybe they meant to invite a group called The Bottles, but it came to us instead."

"Shh," Brian whispered sternly from behind us. "Leave it out, boys."

The Queen made her way down the line politely but efficiently. She finally arrived at John, who looked as tongue-tied as I felt. He was right; there's no way they meant for us to be there. We were just four lads from Liverpool who wrote she-loves-him-and-he-loves-her songs... so why the fuck were we standing in the throne room of Buckingham Palace?

She moved on to George, and I realized I was next. My hungover brain turned to mush, and all I could hear was a little ditty playing on repeat in my head: Her majesty's a pretty nice girl, but she doesn't have a lot to say. I closed my eyes briefly: oh my God, it was not the time for songwriting. It was time to be posh and formal and speak to the sodding Queen of England. When I opened my eyes, she was in front of me, a half-smile on her face.