Scrambled

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic

In the mid 1960s Paul was working on a song. He knew if he could crack it, it might be something.

Based on actual events.

Paul woke with a start. He hummed the tune to himself. Da da dum. He threw a dressing gown around himself, knotting it quickly, and rushed downstairs. He had been staying with his girlfriend Jane and her family for a while and he could often be found tinkering on their piano. This morning he approached the instrument with more purpose than usual. He had to get the tune in his head out there before he forgot it. He’d heard that writers often had a similar problem. Amazing story ideas would come to novelists in the middle of the night, and if they didn’t get it down on paper, by the morning the idea would be lost, gone forever. One of his friends, Keith, a part of the other big rock band of 1960s, would sleep with his guitar and a tape recorder by his bed. Paul had initially called him crazy for doing so, but, when he found out that Keith had woke one morning to find the riff for Satisfaction on the tape recorder, he had conceded that there might be something in it.

Paul plonked around the keys of the upright piano. The tune seemed familiar somehow. He got the tune down and ran through it, over and over again. Was this already a song? Was it some half remembered jingle from years ago? He sung the first words that came to him, lyrics just to hold the melody and keep the phrasing in place. Scrambled eggs, oh baby, how I love your legs. He would come up with actual lyrics later. Each song came to him and John differently. With some songs, the title came first, or the chorus, or a chord. Ringo complaining that he’d been working Eight days a week or that it had been a hard day’s night, had given them lots of inspiration for songs. This song needed more than a funny comment from Ringo. It needed something special.

In the Abbey Road studio later that week, as they drank tea and smoked cigarettes, Paul showed John, George and Ringo, the latest song he was working on. He played it on the piano, humming along, then to show how the lyrics would accompany the tune, he sang about scrambled eggs. The others laughed and clapped their hands.

‘Scrambled eggs, Paul? I can see that as a single now. You’ve got yourself a hit record there, son.’ said John.

‘We’ll get pelted with eggs!’ said Ringo. ‘The fans already throw Jelly Babies after we said we liked them. A song about eggs is a really bad idea.’

George looked up from tuning his guitar and just shook his head in disapproval.

‘Look, it’s the tune, the melody. I’ll sort the lyrics out later.’

‘You better had.’ said John.

 

In the months that followed while the band worked on the tracks that would appear on the album Help!, Paul would keep coming back to the song. When he would launch into the now familiar melody on the piano, the others would groan. Not this again! You and your flaming eggs, Macca. One morning Ringo arrived at the studio with bacon sandwiches for them all. He handed them around to his band mates. As Paul took a bite he realised his butty didn’t contain bacon and brown sauce, but scrambled eggs. Very funny, Rings, he called, throwing the barmcake across the studio at the drummer. Ringo ducked as the sandwich flew past his head. As the others laughed, Paul shook his head.

‘This flippin’ song.’ he chunnered.

‘Tell me about it!’ said John.

In between working on the other tracks and writing new songs, and getting on his other Beatle duties, Paul tinkered and mulled over Scrambled Eggs. He knew he had something. If he managed to crack the lyrics, it could had the makings of a decent track. The others told him to let it go, come back it another time, but it was like an itch he couldn’t help scratching. He found himself drifting off to sleep humming the tune, and singing Scrambled Eggs aloud in the bath the morning after.

In May of 1965, Paul joined the lads in the studio. He had just come back from a holiday to Portugal, and he had news. Getting away for a week had helped him unwind and get his head in gear.

‘Right, then, I’ve got it. I’ve got the lyrics to that song.’

‘Scrambled eggs?’

‘It’s not called Scrambled Eggs anymore.’

‘Go on then, Beethoven, what’s your masterpiece called?’ said John.

‘Yesterday.’


Submitted: October 11, 2021

© Copyright 2021 CTPlatt. All rights reserved.

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Comments

AdamCarlton

That's a compulsively readable story, mordantly funny. Could it be true?

Mon, October 11th, 2021 7:29pm

Author
Reply

Apparently it is true. What started out as Scrambled Eggs became the classic Beatles song. I thought, I am going to write that down. :-) thanks again for your comments.

Tue, October 12th, 2021 12:03am

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