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   CLUB SANDWICH 59

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            However, it did provide the vehicle for a certain left-handed quick-fire comic to exercise himself.
            Nervous Press Conferencer: "Do you think your film will be succ... succ... succ... succ-success... succ- succ- success... successful?"
            Macca: "I think it will be more successful than your question."
            Clever-Dick Press Conferencer Hopelessly Failing In Attempt At Humour: "Do you wear a wig?"
            Macca: "Yes, they're on sale in the foyer."
            Optimistic Press Conferencer Who Doesn't Read His Cuttings: "Are the Beatles going to re-form?"
            Macca: "That's an original question."
            Thirty minutes later, we announce "Sorry, Paul's gotta go" and it's Cue Craziness. The entire front eight rows of the Press rush the stage, knocking over microphones, glasses, tearing down commemorative posters, elbowing each other and us as they clamoured for autographs in a fashion remarkably similar to the frenzy that sharks thrash and gnash in those Jacques Cousteau documentaries.
            Accommodatingly, Macca autographed his way through the shaking forest of albums, posters, CD sleeves and tour T-shirts that your average Euro rock writer appears to find essential tools of journalism, before a bewildered phalanx of local security - unused to such hysteria - rushed him out for a quick getaway.
            Or not.
            The Mercedes-Benz stretch limousine is capable of producing sufficient horsepower to belt it down an Autobahn at 150mph, ideal for quick getaways.
            Macca's Merc, however, took two minutes to get from here ........................................................ to here (three inches); its 150mph belt slightly hampered by the 112 or so fans clinging to each wing.
            Eventually, after a lot of barking in German, Paul, Linda and the Hamish-less band got to the Atlantic Kempinski for more interviews with hard-bitten journos who smoked to steady their shaking in The Presence.
            Back into town again for what was glibly described on the day's itinerary as "a cocktail reception" at the cinema.
            I know about receptions. Been to a ton of 'em. You stroll in, idly, grab a bit of cheese on a cracker, snatch a glass of vino collapso from any passing tray and then mingle.
            Not here, though. Here your nose was mingling with the wallpaper; crushed up against it by the invited great and good of Hamburg who - on spying Mr and Mrs Macca - all rush to their side of the room to gape (if we'd been aboard a ship at this point, the sudden rush to starboard would have capsized it).
            "I think it would be good for Paul to meet some of the guests," says Richard. "Can you cherry-pick some and bring them over?"
            "But Richard, it's packed. We can't move."
            "Just bring some over."
            "Sure, whatcha want us to do - pass them over our heads?"
            "Hmmm. OK, what time is Paul due on air at Radio Hamburg?"

Club Sandwich 59