Checking Her Cherry (the *original* taboo tale)

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Published by pqwer More Girls Chat with x Hamster Live girls now! Comments 93 Spam comments 0. Please log in or register to post comments. If spammers comment on your content, only you can see and manage such comments Delete all. My stepdaughter was still a virgin when she started sucking my cock as punishment for doing naughty things. I was tempted to fuck her, but waited for her boyfriend to fuck her the first time. The day my daughter understood her pussy is power.

I have deflowered a few virgin women, and they will lack the experience and confidence that these women have. Teen virgins will usually have hairy smelly pussies too, because of the combination of fertile hormones and their hairy pussy harboring their vaginal odor. Have sex with that girl, it feels like you still virgin. My mums bf took my virginity hurt like hell getting hard doggy but went back for more. I just have a general sort of feeling of: I'm here now talking to you and this is this bit of life, a little while ago I was getting divorced and that was that weird bit of life, 7 and before that I was living 30 years and raising a family with Linda, 8 that was that bit of life, I'm now married to an American, Nancy, 9 lovely girl, that's this bit of life.

And so if you keep rolling back, you go through Wings, you go through the Beatles, and then you get back to this wild territory which is youth, when you weren't famous and you could get stopped in the street, or you're in school and you were being abused—not in a sexual way but just in teachers being the mad nutcases they were and having that control over you and you had to go along with it. So there's so much stuff been going on, and then I roll back before that, and I'm a really little kid.

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And I can almost feel that I remember things from my birth. I don't know if this is true, this is probably just pure speculation, but I have a vision of a sort of white-tiled room, and chrome clinical instruments, and the clanking noise of those things on chrome trays…" McCartney stops himself at this point and offers a commentary in the third person—"Come on! Is he crazy or not? What I'm saying is, to me it's a vast panoply of a wonderful legendary tapestry, life. There's just so much in this story, and it's still going on, it's still changing, it's still evolving. My feeling is that as long as I'm managing to proceed through it with some sort of pleasure, then that's always been enough.

Sometimes it's been more than enough—it's been vast prizes, vast satisfaction. I couldn't really describe what it is, but it's just time stretched out and all these millions of little occurrences that have happened, and that's me. So yeah, I'm still that little kid. I really do still feel embarrassingly like that, because I know how old I am, and I look in the mirror, I see how old I am. It's this ever changing thing, and I sort of vaguely find myself quite satisfied with it.

I wouldn't say totally, because that's Valhalla. That's asking for possibly too much. But, yeah, I have a lot of good things going on in my life and I generally have a pretty good time. And I feel amazed by all these things, you know. I mean, in the '60s, when we were tripping away, I remember once in London taking acid and going through the trip—you know, all of that, as anyone who's ever taken that shit knows what I'm talking about, just the whole intense vision of what the world is, other than how you see it normally.

And I remember at the height of it seeing this thing that was like a spiral going up in, in my brain, and it was beautiful colors, like multicolored gems going up this spiral. And then, shortly thereafter, [scientists] discovered the DNA helix. I certainly have a feeling, not only my own birth, I've seen my own DNA. McCartney had a very public and rancorous divorce with his second wife, Heather Mills, in after nearly six years of marriage. They have a daughter together, Beatrice, now McCartney's first wife, Linda Eastman, whom he married in , died of cancer in McCartney married his third wife, Nancy Shevell, in So you're saying you discovered the structure of DNA before anyone else—you just didn't tell anyone?

This flight of fancy is only slightly spoiled—or perhaps, looked at another way, enhanced—by the fact that DNA's double-helix structure was actually discovered in , when McCartney was 11 years old. And he was microdosing. I was asked just the other day, and I thought, 'You know what, I've got the grandkids and stuff.

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There's enough going on. I'm okay. McCartney goes on to say that, nonetheless, when he was encouraged to microdose by his friend, "it brought back that feeling of peer pressure from the '60s," and this reminds me that out of the Beatles, McCartney was always painted as the reluctant one, the sensible one—and, indeed, he was the last of the four to take acid. I heard it changes you and you'll never be the same again. I thought: 'Well, that could be a double-edged sword. I'm very practical, and my father was very sensible and raised me to be a sensible cat.

But you certainly weren't the same again. You certainly had insights into what life might be. Thinking about that balance between caution and going full tilt makes me think of what you once said about you and John Lennon and the cliff's edge. He once said that to me. You jump, and tell me how it is. I'm more careful in everything. My dad is a very strong factor in this. He was an ordinary working-class guy, very intelligent, very good with words, but his whole philosophy was to think it out a bit.

So that, that turned out to be my sort of way. Whereas John, you've got to remember, didn't have a father. John didn't even have an uncle. He went to live with the uncle—the uncle died. His dad had run away. So John felt like he was a jinx on the male line, he told me.

How America Lost Its Mind

I had a father. He was always spouting to be tolerant. These were words he used a lot, and I think I listened. So, to take an extreme example, is it really true that John tried to convince you that you should both do trepanning? Trepanning is the process of drilling through the skull to the brain. At various times, people have advocated the benefits of voluntary trepanning, though mainstream medicine considers these to be, at best, spurious. He nods. We'd all read about it—you know, this is the '60s. The 'ancient art of trepanning,' which lent a little bit of validity to it, because ancient must be good.

And all you'd have to do is just bore a little hole in your skull and it lets the pressure off—well, that sounds very sensible. And he knew me well enough that if I said no, I meant no, and I'm not frightened of being uncool to say no. And I wouldn't go so far as to say, 'You're fucking crazy,' because I didn't need to say that. But, no, I'm not gonna trepan, thank you very much. It's just not something I would like to do. I don't think so. I don't think he was really serious. He did say it, but he said all sorts of shit. Did he really come to that meeting near the end of the Beatles and say he was Jesus Christ?

I think I would have remembered that. He was the kind of guy that could do that. I don't remember him actually ever doing it. I mean, on the Sgt. Pepper cover he wanted Jesus Christ and Hitler on there. That was, 'Okay, that's John. It's a laugh. We're putting famous people on the cover: 'Hitler! He's famous! Winston Churchill's your hero, John. So he was just fucking about. That was John. He was very witty, very wonderful, and would like to push the envelope, and it was entertaining to be around someone like that. These are cool people.

But you can't always do everything they suggest. In , Peter Blake, the artist responsible for the sleeve, pointed out that actually the Hitler cutout Lennon had asked for was made, and can be seen in the session outtakes—in the finished version Hitler was completely obscured by the four Beatles standing in front of him. Nearby, he also has his own recording studio, situated in an old windmill on top of a hill with bracing views out over the sea.

Right now, everyone is mingling around its tiny kitchen. McCartney, who is just back from a holiday in the Greek islands with his wife, 13 listens to a ticket-sales update from his British publicist, Stuart Bell, for some big shows he is playing later this year. Before our previous meeting, McCartney had just returned from a short holiday on the island of Ibiza. He shares with me a convoluted theory he subscribes to whereby instead of retiring "which I don't fancy at all—I'm just having too much fun" he takes multiple holidays to spread his retirement time out between his ongoing work.

When I point out that he really doesn't need to justify any of this, and that he would have every right to sit on the sofa for the rest of his life if he really wanted to, he retorts, "Yeah, but you'd get a sore arse. He adds that it's not just him—he's just been reading a book about Shostakovich Julian Barnes's novel The Noise of Time. And he's considered okay.

McCartney leans over a table laden with vegetarian sandwiches and snacks, lifts a corner of the clear wrap off a plate of coffee-cake slices, and tries to extract a segment so that it will look as though he hasn't. There we are. A few minutes later, he holds a pink rose under my nose—one he has just picked from the bush outside, a rose that is officially called the McCartney Rose.

He then points to a 3-D printout of his head someone sent him from Brazil that's sitting on a shelf next to a smaller figurine that I can't quite properly see. His old record company, EMI, gave him the rose—which is to say that they paid for its creation and naming in his honor—on the occasion of his 50th birthday. And so the midafternoon break goes, until McCartney straightens up and suggests to the others, "Shall we go and play some more?

That is what they are here to do today. Shoes, his own, by Stella McCartney. You'd have to be completely immune to the past 55 years of music history, and to Paul McCartney's pivotal role in it, not to be somewhat mesmerized by watching him, just a few feet away, rehearse his way over several hours through 30 or so songs. Mostly, they are re-familiarizing themselves with old favorites, which they generally try to play as closely to the original records as possible, but they're also still figuring out a handful of new songs, and occasionally they throw in fairly obscure cover versions—for instance, "Miss Ann," a song from Little Richard's first album that the Beatles would sometimes play in their pre-fame days.

There are moments that seem even more surprising. When I walk in at the beginning of the rehearsal day, they are in the middle of a long instrumental jam, one that seems very loosely based around the verse chords of the Wings song "Letting Go," during which McCartney noodles and solos on electric guitar 16 at great length in a way that you never really see in public, as though he's in a slightly more prim version of Neil Young and Crazy Horse. It's not a work of grand genius, but it's captivating and deeply odd, and it exists only for these three or four minutes, never to exist again. McCartney mentions that when the Beatles first started out, John gave him a guitar solo and he totally blew it, after which he decided he'd never play lead again, and adds that he has only really started again in the past ten years.

This may be true as far as playing live. For evidence that McCartney has long had an impressive ability to do so when he must, see the original one-man studio version of "Maybe I'm Amazed. McCartney and his band start every rehearsal doing some kind of impromptu jam, and they will also start shows like the Abbey Road performance in the same way, not with a big entrance and opening but simply by playing their way into the room for a while—a little window into the path not taken before Paul McCartney shows who he has actually decided to be.

We're this kind of band, and we give people songs they know. But, yeah, there's another life for us where we just retire to the Nevada desert and get a cabin and just jam.

My Stepdad Took My Virginity

After this odd one-time-only creation finishes, guitarist Brian Ray says to McCartney that he thought the "check my machine" bit was a good idea; this has the side effect of exposing the fact that Ray, quite understandably, doesn't know every last minor creation in McCartney's extensive catalog, given that "Check My Machine" is the title of a slightlyexperimental electronic composition that McCartney released as a B side in McCartney explains.

It's quite a nice little track. He says modestly. In between songs, McCartney keeps up an almost constant onomatopoeic babble of yelps and whoa whoa whoa 's that seem to be for no one's particular benefit, like an engine idling; during the songs, he'll do occasional leg kicks, and at one point during an instrumental break in "Coming Up," he actually starts pogoing backward.

It's hardly cool, but these kinds of moments, ones that can seem a little cheesy and over-eager in front of an audience, feel very different inside this room. As part of a private language of self-expression and enthusiasm, they seem sincere and touching. When McCartney speaks during rehearsal, it's often about minutiae of the songs, but sometimes other thoughts or memories will pop out.

For instance this observation about the different terminology used by the Beatles' peers. He died. You're gonna fucking die if you wrap yourself in cling film. He forgot to leave a hole. McCartney later also points out to me that when the Beatles rehearsed for a tour, however big or important it was, they only ever did so for a single day.

The most striking moment of the afternoon comes, though, when they rehearse "A Hard Day's Night. The band debate it back and forth without coming to a firm conclusion. When McCartney says, "What did I do? Such Beatles-related matters tend to be assiduously documented. McCartney did not play the song again until , but has played it 78 times since.

And so they do. Someone quickly finds the original recording, presses play, and suddenly I am watching the surreal sight of Paul McCartney, 76, standing there in a small shed in the south of England listening to Paul McCartney, 21, performing the same song 19, days earlier. By the time the song reaches its middle eight— when I'm home, everything seems to be right —McCartney is mouthing along to the words, as though he's just enjoying listening to it.

Interestingly, the result turns out to be slightly inconclusive—they think they can maybe hear a D in there, but it might just be a harmonic. McCartney decides he'll "just ride through on the G. A while later, after a climactic medley of the reprise to "Sgt. The new song McCartney and the band work on most carefully today, playing it twice, is a song that is listed on his new album under the title "Fuh You. While McCartney will tell me that the official lyric sheet will read "I just want it fuh you," I think most listeners will hear what I heard long before I was told that there was an alternative: "I just want to fu[ck] you," with the consonants at the end of the penultimate word allowed to drift away, unvoiced.

The rest of the album is produced by Greg Kurstin, whose touch is much less obviously obtrusive—rather than impose a signature sound, he seems mostly to have guided each song to find its own particular path.

I first bring up the subject by quoting to McCartney something he said in an interview about three years back: "Sex is something I prefer to do rather than sing about. Well, if I can work it in I mean, if I can do it, great. But it's not that easy. Well, he pretty much did. As McCartney explains in Barry Miles's Many Years from Now, the song that appeared on The Beatles was inspired by something McCartney saw when the four of them were in India with the Maharishi: "I was up on the flat roof meditating and I'd seen a troupe of monkeys walking along in the jungle and a male just hopped on to the back of this female and gave her one, as they say in the vernacular.

There is an urge, they do it, and it's done with. And it's that simple. We have horrendous problems with it, and yet animals don't. So that was basically it. Why don't we do either of them in the road? Well, the answer is we're civilised and we don't. But the song was just to pose that question. I mean, if you're lucky, when you're creating you can have some fun.

This song was coming to a close and we were just getting a bit hysterical in the studio, as you do when you're locked away for long hours, and I said, 'Well, I'll just say, "I just wanna shag you. And I said, 'No, I'll tell you what we can do is, I can make it questionable as to what it is I'm singing. Which we did a lot in the Beatles. And it brings some joy to your tawdry little life. If you listen to it, I don't actually say 'fuck,' because I don't particularly want to say 'I just want to fuck you'—I've got, like, eight grandchildren.

But anyway. It was something to amuse ourselves. Hey, listen—when you make these things up, it's not like writing a Shakespeare play. I mean, it's intended as a popular song. So you don't feel like you've got to adhere to any rules. And then you do 'Why don't we do it in the road? So what's wrong with that?

This is a reference to the backing vocals on the otherwise elegant and gorgeous Beatles song "Girl"; they lied to George Martin that what they were singing was dit-dit-dit-dit-dit-dit. This was the original version of the line She's a big teaser in the Beatles song "Day Tripper," one that somewhat sharpened, clarified, and focused the lyric's caustic portrayal of tentative commitment.

And is doing it when you're 76 in any way different from doing it when you're 26? Of course the very same things that bring pleasure often bring problems too. The song "Fuh You" is scheduled to be a single before the album's release. McCartney explains onstage at Abbey Road, and also to me in conversation, that he has been told there is an American radio DJ who is both deeply Christian and deeply influential; he says that his record label is worried that she won't play it and that others will follow her cue.

McCartney is relatively safe in discussing this, as both the broadcast of the Spotify concert and the publication of this interview will come after the song's fate as a single has been decided, one way or another. I'm not sure I care. Which I'm pretty sure is best interpreted not as meaning that Paul McCartney doesn't care, but that he's been around the block too many times, and done too much already in his life, and has realized along the way that he's usually ended up happier when he's stuck to his guns and followed his instincts than when he hasn't, and that he actually cares far too much to second-guess what he should do and how he should do it every single time someone else has an opinion about how Paul McCartney should best go about being Paul McCartney.

We are talking today in the office McCartney keeps upstairs in his windmill studio. I want to take him back in time some more, but, once again, not down the paths he finds most familiar. Sometimes I fail in this, and sometimes I don't really mind failing, though it's fascinating to me not just that McCartney often gravitates to certain kinds of Beatles stories anyway, which is maybe understandable given that it is probably what is usually expected of him, but that in doing so he often offers ripostes to slurs that haven't been mentioned in the present conversation.

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For instance, at one point today, even though I also never ask about this, I will suddenly find that I am listening to McCartney agitate about his angst around the circumstances of the Beatles' split—still, it seems, a tender issue: "One of the sadnesses for me when the Beatles broke up, the only way to save the business side of it was me suing the Beatles, so that was like a total heartache.

And the residue was that I was to blame. I was 'the one who broke the Beatles up. John wanted Yoko, so he said we're leaving the Beatles. And the worst thing was: I kind of bought into it. My psyche sort of said, 'No, no, no, no, no, no… Yes! No, you weren't. But mostly I divert him to less discussed moments.

There is all kinds of lore about the very early days of the various Beatles, pre-fame, 25 and how they bonded and learned from one another, and McCartney had spoken about most of this endlessly, but there is one scenario that McCartney doesn't tend to get asked about—for reasons, I suppose, that may become obvious, though he seems pretty comfortable when I do bring it up—a scenario that seems to give a strikingly vivid, spirited, and human insight into the essence of who these boys finding their way into manhood were.

For instance, here's another story offered, unbidden, as a corrective. This one relates to the departure of the fifth Beatle, Stuart Sutcliffe, in the Hamburg years, and McCartney's consequent move to the bass guitar: "When Stu left, I was the only person who would be the bass player. There were rumors that I'd tried to get him out, but it wasn't true. He stayed in Hamburg with his girlfriend, Astrid, and so we were left without a bass player, and the other two wouldn't do it…you know, because guitar's groovy, bass isn't.

It was: The fat boy played bass. And instead of just getting roaring drunk and partying—I don't even know if we were staying over or anything—we were all just in these chairs, and the lights were out, and somebody started masturbating, so we all did. There would be about five of them: McCartney, Lennon, and maybe three of Lennon's friends. As they each concentrated on their mission, anyone in the group was encouraged to shout out a name that would offer relevant inspiration.

At least until one of them—the one you would perhaps expect—opted for disruption over stimulation. It wasn't a big thing. But, you know, it was just the kind of thing you didn't think much of. It was just a group. Yeah, it's quite raunchy when you think about it. There's so many things like that from when you're a kid that you look back on and you're, 'Did we do that? It didn't hurt anyone. Not even Brigitte Bardot. There is a later moment of intimate intra-Beatle bonding that is a little more famous: when, all sharing a room in their pre-fame Hamburg days, the other Beatles kept quiet, listening, while the year-old George Harrison dispensed with his virginity, and then all applauded at the end.

I know we had one bed and two sets of bunks, and if one of the guys brought a girl back, they could just be in the bed with a blanket over them, and you wouldn't really notice much except a little bit of movement. I don't know whether that was George losing his virginity—it might have been. Because you're all in the same barracks. We were always very close and on top of each other, which meant you could totally read each other.

If it was a myth, it was one that George Harrison, not a man known for encouraging Beatle-y myths, himself endorsed: "After I'd finished," Harrison said, "they all applauded and cheered. At least they kept quiet whilst I was doing it. In music, it made us a very tight band, but as friends it made us able to read each other.

When we were super close…examples being, like, going down the motorway and the van had no air-conditioning and it was bitter, in the middle of winter, and we lay on top of each other, literally. It was the only way we could stay warm. We suffered for a while, just shivering, and then someone said: Well, why don't we…? So we did a Beatles sandwich.

It would be lovely if I remembered. It warmed us. It was a good idea. But, you know, as I say that story, I question it: Is that just one of my stories? But then…did I meet Elvis Presley? Yes, I did! But my mind is sort of going: Really? Some of them, they're just so outrageous, you think: 'Was that really true?

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The Beatles met Elvis Presley only once, spending several hours with him on the evening of August 27, , at Presley's mansion in Bel Air, though—and this is possibly why McCartney mentions meeting Elvis in this context—each Beatle would later have significantly differing memories of precisely what took place. For instance, Lennon remembered a guitar jam session with Elvis.

In the s, the three surviving Beatles dismissed this story, though a British newspaper journalist who was there maintains that it did happen. A while later, I return to the semi-accidental trajectory I seem to have fallen into about changing forms of intimacy as the Beatles evolved, and read out to McCartney a quote from John Lennon, something he said soon after the Beatles' split, decrying how sanitized the published accounts had been of what life was really like in the Beatles: "There was nothing about orgies and the shit that happened on tour.

There were sexual encounters of the celestial kind, and there were groupies. The nearest it got… See, this is my experience, because I'm just not into orgies. I don't want anyone else there, personally. It ruins it! I would think—I've never actually done it. Didn't appeal to me, the idea. There was once when we were in Vegas where the tour guy, a fixer, said, 'You're going to Vegas, guys—you want a hooker? And I had them, and it was a wonderful experience. But that's the closest I ever came to an orgy. See, the thing is, in the next room I think the guys might have ordered something else off the menu.

So that would figure if John was saying, yeah, it was all bacchanalian. I think John was a little more that way, because thinking back, I remember there was someone in a club that he'd met, and they'd gone back to the house because the wife fancied John, wanted to have sex with him, so that happened, and John discovered the husband was watching. That was called 'kinky' in those days. So I think maybe John experienced a bit more of that than I did. Tell you the truth, I just didn't fancy it, that kind of thing.

Someone else's wife? I definitely wouldn't want the husband to know. You know, that seems sensible to me. Am I too sensible? Mine wasn't particularly crazy but it was a lot of fun. And there was a lot of it. So that was good enough for me. Today is also the day after Donald Trump's calamitous press conference in Helsinki with Vladimir Putin, and what McCartney is talking about at first when he sits down is Trump's brazen insistence this morning that when he said "would" he meant "wouldn't. And I'm in a bit of that mood now, with him.

Boycott's the only answer, I think. Though there is a song on McCartney's new album called "Despite Repeated Warnings" that is inspired by Trump's listen-to-no-one-else recklessness, it may actually be Putin into whom McCartney has the greater insight. He was also, at that time, heavily involved alongside his second wife in the campaign to ban land mines, and they saw an opportunity. They asked for, and were granted, a meeting. We chatted—he had a translator, though we were later told he can perfectly well understand English. In a documentary about the couple's fight against the global fur trade, McCartney's second wife quoted McCartney as believing—probably accurately, but perhaps also a little chillingly—"no one is Beatle-proof.

The official website for the president of Russia carries an account of this Putin-McCartney summit from the local perspective. A characteristic extract: Answering Sir McCartney's question whether the Beatles' music was banned in Soviet times, Mr Putin said there was no ban on it, but many things were over-ideologised, and the Beatles' trend did not fit into Soviet ideology. Putin told them that he couldn't come to McCartney's show because "he had something to do," and so when McCartney saw that there was a piano in the room where they were, he decided to use it: "I thought, Well, if he's not coming, might as well sing something for him.

So I gave him a private little recital of 'Let It Be. After all that, Putin did attend the concert, and for some time afterward, whenever people would ask McCartney what Putin was like, McCartney would tell them, notwithstanding his land-mine intransigence, that he "seems great, very nice, very friendly. The following week, we are back on the sofa in McCartney's London office. When I mention that moment in rehearsal when he had realized that he might not be playing "A Hard Day's Night" correctly, and wonder aloud how he could not know by now, he protests: "People aren't you, and they don't experience it.

People haven't written songs. And that's just with John. They haven't written…too many songs. So you don't remember them. As he says this, McCartney grabs the acoustic guitar that's standing beside the sofa. In the end, he says, they actually had to go back into the original multi-tracks, to analyze it, and discovered that there were a number of different things being played there, layered. I ask him whether it was strange to stand there in the rehearsal, listening to the original record. Because you just go, 'Oh shit, what a good group.

On the table in front of us is the artwork for his new album. Its title, Egypt Station, is taken from the name of the painting on its cover, one painted by McCartney many years ago in Arizona, largely based on a book of Egyptian iconography. The lines along the bottom of the painting were taken from the decoration around a vase, but then he realized that they looked somewhat like the train tracks at a station, hence the picture's—and now album's—title.

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That would surely be his work, Bowie Spewing. McCartney explains that he didn't set out to do a portrait of one of his peers, he was just painting, and only as the work neared completion did he realize what his creation indisputably resembled: "It just looked like Bowie, and it looked like he was throwing up—there was nothing deeper than that. I answered 'Of course not, but what a coincidence, I am currently working on a song that's called "McCartney Shits.

But, you know, he was a jovial character. And then I thought, no, I kind of knew what direction I wanted to go in. And I knew that would be very different from where Kanye would go with it. And then we never talked about it again. It was just a thought that was thrown away. I certainly thought about it and got very excited and thought, 'That's something, there's no denying that…but is it something I want to do?

And I thought, 'Maybe not. McCartney and West first met in at the European MTV awards in Liverpool: "I'd just gone through my divorce, and I was kind of a little bit raw from it, and I said something to him about it, and he'd just broken up with someone, and he just pulled out his phone and played this great little track—I don't even remember what it's called, but it's one of his famous ones. So I sort of liked him, and I liked this tune.

I'm not sure what he was doing there—I think he might have been hanging out with Bono. And I knew she had a problem, and I ended up just saying hi, she said hi, but afterwards I thought I really should have just run after her—'Hey, Amy, listen, you're really good, I really hope you…'—and say something that broke through the despair.

And she'd remember and think, 'Oh yeah, I'm good, I've got a life to lead. Anyway, that was when I saw Kanye for the first time. A little unfair. Bono was there, but West actually performed the song "American Boy" with the British singer Estelle and also picked up the weirdly named Ultimate Urban award. Then, in , McCartney received the unexpected message via his manager that Kanye had asked whether they might write together.

McCartney said yes, with the proviso that they would tell no one what they were doing, and that if nothing came of it they never would. They met for two or three afternoons in a bungalow round the back of the Beverly Hills Hotel in Los Angeles.