The Beatles walked onto the large backstage platform and looked around at the cameras and lights, almost mesmorized. They stood in a huddle as they waited for Jeremy James to interview them.
"How much toime 'ave we befoh the concert," Ringo asked eagerly.
"Oi'd say abou' an hour," John replied, looking down at his watch.
"Where's Misteh James," George cried, looking about the room frantically, "The lady said 'e was ready for us."
"Tha's show-biz folk, lad," Ringo replied, wrapping his arm around his younger, yet taller, friend, "Always fashionably late, tha' they ah."
John giggled as Paul groaned a bit and held his stomach tightly.
"Alroi', mate," Ringo asked looking over at Paul, "Tummy upset?"
" 'S nothin', really," Paul replied hoarsely, "Jus' the butterflies, is all."
But John wasn't buying it. He knew Paul all too well to know when he was alright and when he wasn't- and right now, he WASN'T.
"Yeh lookin' a bit green, Paul," George added, "Sure tha' you're alright?"
"Ah'm sure, Harrie," Paul faked a smile to his young friend, "Thanks, though."
John was about to tell Paul to go sit down somewhere and rest, when Mr. James had finally approached the boys with an eager smile and his microphone held in his fist.
"Weh-he-hell," He started excitedly, shaking each of their hands, "If it isn't The Beatles 'emselves! Pleasure t' meetcha boys!"
"Pleasure," Ringo replied as he shook Jeremy's hand.
"Chahmed," John said as Jeremy shook his hand.
"Hullo," George cried cheerfully as he shook Jeremy's hand.
Paul reached out his hand to shake Jeremy's hand, greeting him kindly with a pleasant, "Nice t' mee-ah-," but pulled his hand back and pinched his nose to stifle a sneeze.
"-ah..HAIKMF-CHOO!"
"Bless," John, George, Ringo, and Jeremy replied.
He sniffled embarrassedly as he muttered to Mr. James, "Ugh-*sniff*-Beg pardon. Terribley sorry, sih!"
" 'S alroi' lad," Jeremy laughed as he handed Paul a tissue, "Say, that was some sneeze there, McCartney. Not catchin' cold, ah yeh?"
"We hope not," John replied as Paul blew his nose.
"Let's say we get on with the intehview then," Mr. James said as he motioned for the camera man to come closer, "So you's can get on with yeh concert."
The Beatles mumbled to themselves and promoted the idea. When all of a sudden, Paul's stomach did a humungous flip-not like one you get when you're nervous either. It was one of those flips you get when you're about to get throw up, or something along those messy lines. Paul was nearly ready to dart to the loo, but he looked back at John who was staring at him wit worried eyes. Paul cleared his throat, faked a smile, and faced the cameras letting out a little sigh of pain.
"Are you beginning to find the strain of this going around the country at this tremendous speed getting you down a bit?" Mr. James asked.
"No, no!" The Beatles laughed, "No we loike it, it's great," Ringo added.
"You know us," Paul chimed in. He felt so tired. So...blah! His eyes were growing heavy, and his stomach-ache worsened by the second. 'Ah can't jus' luke* roi' here,' he thought, 'Not in fron' of all the cam'ras. Or even worse--not in front of the guys!'
Paul had pride issues, you see. He never liked to admit it when he was down. He'd been like this ever since he was just a boy. Paul never liked to complain or anything, and if something was wrong with him, there wasn't enough money in the world that you could pay Paul to admit it. His stomach really hurt, and those big, bright lights weren't helping much either. He'd already felt hot enough as it is, seeing that he was running a fever, and he felt quite dizzy and a bit out of it.
"...Y' see, the police get mobbed, we don't," John replied to Mr. James' question.
"It's always well-organized, y'know," Paul added, trying to contribute to the interview, "Tonigh' wos very good."
He went back to being quiet after that, and seemed to drift away. However he was quickly brought back into the conversation when Jeremy asked, "How'd yeh get here tonight?"
"Wot's 'at?" Paul replied absently. He was not really paying attention to Mr. James. John noticed his lack of alertness, but remained silent.
"How?"
"Well," Paul said hoarsely, then cleared his throat, "We were met outside the, um, city, an' brought in by a van."
John turned to Ringo and noticed Paul's lack of colaberation. He usually ADORED speaking at interviews, and now he was barely speaking two words.
"You're getting so much publicity these days," Jeremy continued, "And even the 'egghead' papers are writing about you. Have you been just a little bit worried that you might be going over the top fairly soon?"
"No, no," John replied cooley, "When ya, gotta go, ya gotta go," he joked, then turning to Paul looking rather serious.
As everybody else laughed, Paul remained still. He was looking at the ground, hands in his pockets, and looked as though he were about to drop any second. John noticed that Paul was not his usual, talkative self like he always is at these interviews. Most of the time, it was he and Paul who carried out most of the conversation with the interviewers, but now Paul seemed to have his head somewhere else.
Later on in the interview, John commented Ringo's scarf, and how his voice sounded funny. Ringo laughed and said, "There's nothin' wrong with it: Oi olways talk loi' this!"
As everybody else laughed, Paul let out an unsteady, "Ahh." He cringed, and held his stomach. It was killing him! He just wished that he were home- in bed. 'Ah can't do this,' Paul thought, "Put on a show tonight with me stomach oll in a knot. But Ah can't let everyone down: the fans, the lads! C'mon, McCartney! Brace up, ol' chap-you'll be fine!" However, like nobody can, Paul couldn't trick himself into thinking he was alright; no matter how much he wanted to.
The interview passed on, and Paul still stood uncomfortabley waiting for the interview to end. He wasn't even pay attention to any of it now. Paul stood quietly behind Ringo, and swayed back and forth dizzily. He felt faint, but held himself together somewhat. His skin was a very pale shade of green, with cheeks and nose a tinted pink. His legs felt weak and shaky, and he was sweating up a storm. Hot and cold all at the same time he felt, and he wished he had a blanket and pillow to just lay down right then and there.
John looked over at Paul to find that he looked faint and ill. Even as Jeremy James was asking him a question, John looked over at Paul, worriedly, and called sternly, "Y' alroi'?!"
Paul was startled. He looked over to everybody and lied calmly, "...Yeah!"
As everybody laughed, and Mr. James directed another question to Ringo and George, John looked straight at Paul with a smirk. Paul looked at him, and then down to the floor. John's smile faded as he asked again, more quietly and concernedly this time, "Ah you alroi'?"
Instead of nodding 'yes', Paul seemed to mouth with his lips 'no', and turned his head as he rolled his eyes, so John couldn't really tell what he'd said.
"The audience," George continued, answering a question, "Was much bettah than we expected.
"Much taller," John added, jokingly.
"Well, lads," Jeremy said, "I figure this about wraps things up for the interview, eh? Thanks foh yeh time, an' best of luck with the concert!"
"An'...clear!" The camera-man called from behind the camera.
"Put on a good show lads," Jeremy cried to the boys excitedly, "Pleasure t' meet ya."
"G'bye!" Ringo cried as Jeremy scampered away.
"Thank you!" George chimed in.
"Oh, shite," John cried looking at his watch, "We've fifteen minets t' show-toime, lads! Let's rehearse real fas', eh?"
As the boys walked over to their instruments, Paul wobbled over shakily to his bass.
"Alroi' then," John cried as he picked up his guitar, "Let's play "A Hard Day's Night" then. Ringo-count off!"
Ringo picked up his drumsticks and tapped them as he said, "An' a one, an' a' two, an' a one-two-three-fouh!"
The boys all looked at Paul who had his eyes closed and a hand on his head, which was aching like crazy now.
"Erhm...Paul?" George tapped Paul's shoulder curiously.
"Hmm?" Paul raised his head, half-opening his tired eyes.
"You start off the song, r'membah? Yah play tha' A-cord on the down-beat and then we sing."
"O-oh, yeah," Paul nodded tiredly, "Th-that's roi'-"
He coughed, and cleared his throat.
"You okay?" Ringo called to Paul, "Yeh lookin' a bit pearly*."
"F-fine, fine," Paul replied as he sniffled, "Once more with th' coun-off, Rings."
Ringo looked at John and George, and clanged his sticks together. Paul played the cord, and everybody sang. Paul started to sing, and then got into a bit of a coughing fit. They stopped, and John walked up to Paul.
"Alroi', Paul," John yelled, "Wot th' 'ell is goin' on with yew?! Yeh havn't been yehself the whole day! The whole bloody intehview, yeh barely spoke two words, an' yeh fugot the friggin' cord of the song! Now, if there's somethin' yeh'd like t' tell us, McCartney, NOW's the toime t' say it!"
Paul was finally about to admit that he was feeling sick, but before he could, his face turned a bright shade of green as he turned his head and threw up all over the floor.
George and Ringo just looked over at him in amazement, and John said quietly as he watched, "Well, tha' explains a lot."
Paul held his stomach for a moment after he let nature run its course, and his knees wobbled before he began to fall down in a faint.
"WHOA, whoa whoa," John cried excitedly, rushing to Paul and catching him before he fell to the floor, "Easy, easy, Mack."
George and Ringo rushed over to John as he tried smacking Paul lightly in the face trying to get him up from passing out.
"Paul, PAUL," Ringo cried as he snapped his fingers near Paul's ear,"Snap out of it, son!"
George reached out his hand and laid it quickly on Paul's forehead before jolting it away.
"Well, Oi'll be damned," George gasped worriedly rubbing his hand, "He's got a spiked fever!"
"Damn it oll," John cried, fanning Paul's face, "Wake up, lad!"
"Hmmm..." Paul moaned sleepily, "J-john? W-wot...wot jus' 'appened....?"
"Paul! Oh, thank goodness," John cried looking to the others, "Yeh've seemed to've fainted, lad. Dontchu r'membah?"
"Oy, y-yeah," Paul replied hoarsely, smiling weakly, "W-w-wos 'at befoh Ah luked, 'er aftah?"
Paul shivered furiously in John's arms, even though his body was as hot as lava on the outside.
"Poor lad's got them chills bad," Ringo muttered as John took off his jacket and placed it on Paul.
He looked to George and ordered, "Go get Brian-NOW-an' tell 'im-"
"Tell Brian wot," Brian laughed as he walked over to the boys, "Now wot's all-"
Brian stopped mid-sentence when he noticed that there was throw-up covering the floor.
"Wot 'appened to the floor?" He asked cautiously.
He then looked over to Paul who was moaning quietly and very sick-looking.
"Wot 'appened to HIM?!" He cried, rushing over to Paul.
"Weeeeell," John started, as Brian felt Paul's impossibley hot forehead, " 'E sort of...got sick, an' fainted."
Brian looked at John comepletely baffled, when Ringo spoke up.
"Brian, Ah think we'd best reschedule the concert foh anotha toime?"
"RESCHEDULE?!" Brian cried angrily.
"R-reschedule??" Paul replied shakily with a sneeze.
"D' you know how much it's gonna cost me t' cancel this 'ere concert t'noi' an' 'reschedule' it foh anothah date?!" He screamed at Ringo angrily.
"Well then, cheap-skate," John cut in, " 'Ow th' hell d'ya think we're gonna do this then withou' Paul?!"
"Oh, Paul can do it, can't 'e?" Brian said eagerly, "Ah mean, he's already luked, so there mus' not be nothin' left fah him to-y' know- 'share with the audience', so he-"
"AH YOU FUCKING JOKING, EP," John interrupted angrily, firery rage built up in his eyes, "LOOK AT 'IM, BRIAN! 'E CAN BARELY FOOCKIN' STAND UP ON 'IS OWN! AN' YOU EXPECT 'IM T' DO A BLOODY CONCERT?! NOT-UH: NO FOOCKIN' WAY! THERE'S NO CHANCE IN 'ELL THA' AH'M LETTIN' 'IM GO ON LOI' THIS; HE'S-"
"Ah can do it, John," Paul said as he released himself from John's grip. He grabbed his bass and started to sing, "C-can't buy me loooooo-ooooo--" but was stopped by an uproar of croupy coughing and unsteady breathing. He sounded like he was gasping for air as he heaved unsteady breaths. Ringo rubbed his back as he said quietly to Paul, "Shh..shh, 's alroi' Paul; jus' breathe...". John looked over to Brian with anger and sympathy for his sick friend in his eyes.
"Look at 'im, Brian," John gestured his head towards Paul, "He can't do this, Eppy...don't make 'im do this."
Brian looked over at Paul who was shivering and holding his hand over his face. He could tell that Paul was trying to supress the tears back into his eyes. He turned away from Paul, looked at John and sighed as he said, "Ah'll explain t' Misteh James wot happened an' try to fix a new concert date."
"Thanks, Ep," John smiled.
"Yeah, yeah," Eppy replied. He looked over at Paul who was coughing again, and looked back at John, "Ah'll send a doctah oveh to th' hotel room immediately", and then walked off to find Jeremy.
John walked over the Paul and looked at his tear-stained face. He's been crying because-well, not only did he feel just aweful, but the entire concert was to be because HE got sick-which made it entirely his fault. John frowned slightly, ruffled his friend's hair as sort of a way to tell him, "Don't worry about it." and felt his forehead once more.
"C'mon, lad," John said quietly, wrapping his arm around a feverish Paul heading for the door and out to the limo, George and Ringo following close behind, "Let's getchu ta bed."