I don't usually write stories this short. Or romantic. But I'm on a notebook-cleaning spree here!
Dear Macca,
I don't know why I'm writing this. I think you would be mad if I told you the reason, actually, so I won't. Now George is jabbing me with a giant poker. He's forcing me, you know. Ah, got a whack for that.
Remember the day we met? Actually don't. Remember th-ouch. Okay. The day we met. It was hot, wasn't it? Yep, hot, hot, hot, and muggy too. I played my guitar like a banjo back then ,which is probably why I dread when I get the solos now. You made me feel like a complete loony, you ass, when you got that incredulous (big word, that) look on your face. I got over it, though, because you still hold your guitars upside down! There, I'm one-up on you. As always. I really hate George. Why did we even let him audition for us? Ow.
What I'm trying to say, what I've told you a million times, what George is torturing me with this bleeding poker to get me to tell you in a bloody letter-like anyone sends letters to their mates now, anyway-and what possibly everyone...Ringo, George-obviously and ow, Cynthia, the nicer-more-polite George, Pete, Brian, Ivan, Jane-sorry, Mo, Patti, the man at the petrol station, the Queen mum, Ed Sullivan, hopefully not the reporters, definitely not the police, George hit me again. Anyway, they've all found out and you haven't. Ha ha. Christ, George! You have to save me, Paul, I'll be black and blue and people will think you've been beating me.
They all know, but Stu was the first one. Stu told me, and he threatened to tell you himself. That's why I was hoping to see him before he saw you. And then he was gone, anyway, and he would never tell you. Stu told me to tell you, so I will, but I don't know how. George is forcing my hand now, literally. But I'm stronger than he is! Sorry for the ink stains.
Do you want to know a secret, Paul? 'Cause I'm telling you the next line of that Lennon/McCartney original. Let me whisper in your ear...