George Harrison was admitted to University College Hospital, London, on 7 February 1969 to have his tonsils removed.
The precise date of the operation is not known, but Harrison left hospital on 15 February.
My first real test arrived one February afternoon in 1969, while I was sitting on one of the white press-office couches, leafing through a copy of Melody Maker.“Hey Leslie, have you got a minute?” Derek [Taylor] asked, waving for me to come over.
“Sure,” I said, dropping the magazine and walking up to his desk. “What is it?”
“George is having his tonsils out at University College Hospital,” he explained.
“Oh, really?” I said, wondering what this could possibly have to do with me. “Well, I hope he’ll be OK.”
“Thing is, he’s pretty bored over there. He needs something to do.”
“A-ha.” I nodded, a bit nonplussed. I still didn’t get Derek’s drift. “What can I do?”
“Well, I thought it might be good if you went over there and, you know… washed and blow-dried his hair or something. Just to keep him amused, you know?”
It was I who was amused at that point. I don’t think my hairdressing services had ever been described as entertainment before. But of course I was more than happy to go along with it. How many times had I been entertained by George and his friends?
Before I left the room, however, Derek added something else.
“Listen, Leslie,” he said. “Whatever happens, do not speak to any reporters. There will be hundreds of them outside, and they will throw a million questions at you. Don’t say anything about George. Is that clear?”
“OK, Derek, mum’s the word.”
As I headed for the hospital, I wondered whether Derek’s job had made him a little paranoid. I mean, what was there to hide? Then again…perhaps there really was something seriously wrong with George, and the tonsils story was just a smokescreen. What if the Beatle’s voice was at risk? What if he might never sing again? Was that the reason for such secrecy?
When I got to the hospital, I saw that Derek hadn’t been exaggerating. The place was positively swarming with journalists and photographers. No one knew who I was, however, so getting through the crowd undetected was simple. The security guards posted outside George’s room had to check my identity, but Derek must have briefed them, because they allowed me in.
“How you doin’, George?” I said cheerfully as I came in.
George nodded to me with a faint smile. His shoulder-length hair fell around his pillow in a mess, and by then he’d started growing a longish moustache and goatee beard. He made hand signals to explain he couldn’t talk.
“That’s fine, don’t worry. I’ll do the chatting. Derek told me you wanted your hair done. By the way, he says he’s got a Scotch ready for you when you get back. Best thing for a sore throat, he says. Do you think you can get out of bed? We’ll have to wash your hair in the bathroom sink.”
We set up an impromptu salon, and I got to work. It was something of a shock to encounter a Beatle who was unable to talk, let alone sing, but George had never been much of a talker, so it wasn’t that different from our sessions at my Apple salon. The hospital-room chair wasn’t as luxurious as my retro velvet wonder, but George relaxed into it and managed to go off into his particular meditative la-la-land. As for me, I decided to take things as slowly as possible, working the shampoo into his scalp with unhurried circular movements, rinsing thoroughly, towelling off his long mane, then blow-drying it carefully, combing his thick hair with my fingers. Even Vidal Sassoon himself couldn’t have drawn the “entertainment” out any longer.
“There you go,” I said, when the job was finished. “Feeling better now?”
George gave me the thumbs up. I think the poor guy, more than anything else, needed to see a familiar face. As I left the room, I appreciated Derek’s good sense in sending me over. I actually felt the warm, inner glow of having done a good deed.
As I came down the stairs however, I suddenly found myself surrounded by the press.
“How’s George?”
“What’s happening?”
“When will he be coming out?”
“Are you a friend of his?”
I was a bit taken aback, having forgotten all about the crowd of journalists. What was it that Derek had said? Oh, yeah: say nothing.
“Err… no comment,” I stammered, remembering what I’d seen people on TV saying in similar situations.
I pushed my way through the gaggle of squawking reporters, shielded behind those two words, which I just kept repeating again and again, as they followed me all the way back to my car, tugging on my jacket and throwing their questions at me.
“No comment, no comment, no comment!”
As I drove off, relieved to have escaped the onslaught unscathed, I reviewed the scene in my head as if I was watching it on TV. It was actually quite amusing to imagine. I felt so important, all of a sudden, keeping secrets from the press, avoiding their questions like a hounded politician. If I were forced to remain in the public spotlight all the time, I could understand what a nightmare it would be. But just for a few minutes, I have to say that it was rather fun.
As for Derek’s advice, I understood what he’d meant. Clearly, there was nothing seriously wrong with George. I could have simply said something to the reporters like, “Oh, George has lost his voice, but he seems OK.” But who knows what kind of headline that could have made, just to sell more papers? BEATLE GEORGE’S CAREER THREATENED BY VOICE LOSS! It makes me tremble just to think about it.
The Cutting Edge