Julian’s Treatment
There’s several people I wouldn’t want to be, and one of them’s Julian Lennon. John Charles Julian Lennon, born in Liverpool, ’63, between the astronomical signs of “Please Please Me” and “From Me To You,” son of Beatle and The One Who Wasn’t Yoko.
Julian’s Treatment
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by Sylvie Simmons
There’s several people I wouldn’t want to be, and one of them’s Julian Lennon.
John Charles Julian Lennon, born in Liverpool, ’63, between the astronomical signs of “Please Please Me” and “From Me To You,” son of Beatle and The One Who Wasn’t Yoko. Hidden from fans, photographed in twee baby-kilt with vanishing Japanese step-stepsister, pestered by mediums with songs his dad’s written for him in Heaven because his songs are well, you know.
If I played rock ’n’ roll, lived rock ’n’ roll, instead of filing my nails on a typewriter to it, I wouldn’t want to be Julian Lennon. I wouldn’t want to be told I looked like my Dad, sang like my Dad, talked like my Dad or didn’t. I wouldn’t want The Thoughts Of Dad in answers on Trivial Pursuit cards. I wouldn’t want to be talking right this minute to a journalist who used to hang outside my Dad’s house 20 years ago just to see him put out the actual milk bottles.