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customs lounge, stepped out into Arrivals and the first wave of the fans sent rhy ribs crashing into a phone-box that until that moment had been securely fixed to the wall.
            "PA UL L L L L L L ! ! ! I ! RINNNNNNDAAAUM",
rang the screeches.
Another phone-box met its maker as the crowd, now completely hysterical, rushed again; poleaxing cops and wedging us as in a vice, nose-on to the wall. CRUNCH! A camera was dropped and broke, then another, then another.Police whistles blew. Somebody was hopelessly yelling through a megaphone, a lot of "Jesus Chriiiist!!!" oaths were being wheezed by security as our little convoy tried to inch itself to the exit, unintentionally destroying more public telephones than on a rowdy night in Birkenhead.
            Suddenly, Paul decides it's a really good idea to shake hands with a fan. Like Pirhanas, they're on him, 30 grabbing his hand, arm, cuff and - to my complete and abject horror - I see Paul McCartney's entire head and torso disappear into the yelling throng.

Club Sandwich 54