'Yes, of course,' Sue-John managed to say.
'The reporters will be here soon from the court. I want a show of force. We're not dead yet,' he laughed. 'Could you all tape photos of us three all over the front of this building? I mean, plaster the place. A show of strength for the vultures.'
We all laughed and said yes, we'd love to. Debbie brought out eight-by-ten inch black and white press photos of John, George and Ringo plus reams of tape. We went to work. We started with the door; the three faces soon covered every inch of that white surface. John leaned out of his office window to tape photos over his windows. George and Ringo joined him in taping pics outside and inside the windows. . . .
It didn't take long for the reporters to arrive, descending like a swarm of bees. They pulled up in cars causing traffic jams, some even double parking. Others, who obviously parked elsewhere, raced from all directions on foot. It was scary. . . .
We stood on the steps with our backs to the railings. We were orderly, but had our shoulders touching each other out of fear. We left the middle walkway clear as usual so people could get to and from Apple's door.
But the reporters were anything but orderly. They swarmed up the steps, twenty at a time, in a never ending human stream. They nearly pushed us through the metal railings. I felt the rails press into my back causing extreme panic, more panic than pain. I didn't fancy iron being pressed through my body. The Apple staff not only closed the door in their (and our) faces, but locked it. Never before or since had the door been locked as long as it was daylight. No matter how many tourists, no matter how large the crowds or how crazy they were, the door was never locked. I felt like I had just entered a war zone.
The reporters stood facing the locked door and packed next to us. No one could move. Finally, out of total desperation, the reporters started asking us questions: 'Have you heard the Beatles have broken up?'; 'How do you feel about it?; 'Why not cry for the camera?'
We remained staunchly silent. We didn't care for their presence and even less for their silly questions. It was no longer 'news' to us. We had seen it happen slowly and painfully, since 1969. The reporters were acting like it had just happened, today. Like lightning from the sky.
Some of the reporters were frankly angry with us for being so uncooperative. One pulled Jill's arm and shouted 'I asked you a question.' Jill pulled her arm free and drove her elbow into his stomach.
Real trouble started, however, when George decided to leave. He quickly came out the door, but he didn't get far. The reporters blocked his exit. George kept saying 'Excuse me,' but no one moved.
'What do you thing of the court decision?'
'No comment,' responded George.
That did it. One reporter grabbed George's long hair and started to pull his head back. Another one kicked George in the leg, while another punched him in the stomach. George fell backwards from his hair being pulled and then forwards to protect his organs and lastly his legs looked like they were folding. I don't know about George, but panicked.
I didn't think. It was as automatic as screaming when I first saw the Beatles in concert. I lurched forwards, scratched my way through the reporters and screamed, 'Let him go!' One reporter turned to fac me. He put his camera up but not for long. I grabbed it out of his hands, threw ot over the railings and attacked him, nails first. I soon found that I was not alone. It was as if all the Scruffs were just waiting for assign or the word 'go'. Girls were everywhere, scratching, punching, pulling hair, kicking, biting and pushing then in the railings to see how they liked it. We figured if they could do these things to George, we could do it to them.
George yelled to me, 'Help me to my car!'
That was all I needed. His soliciting of our help was an approval of our behavior.
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