Perspective | The Insurance Negotiator and Ringo Starr
One Saturday evening in 1968, I was waiting to turn left onto Wardour Street, the center of the British film industry in London’s Soho. When two black stretch limousines zoomed past, I nipped in behind them. In my rear-view mirror, I saw two more big black limos following me.
We thus became a procession. When the guys ahead turned into a parking garage, I followed suit. The five vehicles, my mother’s Italian Job Mini a tiny stowaway, drove down and down until we reached the very lowest underground parking floor.
A hand emerged from the window of limo number two, and waved me to park next to it. The last two limos tucked in beside me.
There were no other vehicles in the entire enormous basement. For a moment, I wasn’t sure this was OK. The people in the limos could have been drug lords, the mob, or worse.
But it was only the Beatles. One per limo.
I walked over to George Harrison, the nearest moptop, and apologised. “I got caught up and couldn’t find a way out,” I said.
“No problem,” said the great man. “The way out is over thurr, where the sign says Way Out.” I shook his hand and headed towards the sign. By the time the elevator arrived, the Fab Four had joined me.
“Who’s he?” asked Ringo, pointing at me.
“He’s looking for the way out,” George said.
“He looks way out,” said Ringo, and everybody laughed.
We went up to Wardour Street, and walked, John and Paul in the lead. No one recognised any of us; no photographers took photos. Probably only one of us wished they had.
The five-piece I had elected myself into turned left. My status had changed from accidental parker to nosy parker.
The Fab Five then arrived at the entrance to Trident Studios, where four of them had been working on The White Album. The musical legends went into the studio. A very large gentleman made sure I didn’t do the same.
I reminded Ringo of that story when we flew to Amsterdam, years after the Beatles split up. He and I were the only passengers on a 10:25am flight from Heathrow. Ringo didn’t recall our earlier meeting.
My mission that day was to start negotiating heavy-duty insurance contracts for our European undertakings in nine countries and nine languages (with professional assistance). Ringo’s was to sign a recording contract with Polydor.
On the plane, his presence a few rows ahead of me drove the four young stewardesses into a frenzy. Rock and roll being a 24-hours-a-day-every-day kind of job, Ringo was smoking and knocking back brandy at a furious rate. He sent a stew back to see if I’d like to join the party.
Overwhelmed by the man’s fame and sheer presence, I can’t recall what we chatted about. I do remember telling him that, as a fellow (but failed) drummer, I thought he was severely underrated. “I’m a Beatle, you know,” he said.
I didn’t have a chance to say goodbye, because at Schiphol airport, Ringo had passed out, lying on the baggage conveyor, going round and round in never-ending circles. &

