“The Deads-men, the Deadmen, the Undeads-men, the Undeadmen, the Rots, the Rotters, the Dirts, the Dirty Ones, the Grayboys, the Eaten Brains, the Eating Brains, the Mersey Beaters, the Mersey Beaten, the Bloodless, the Graves, the Headstones, and the Liverpools of Blood.”

Paul ripped off John’s right arm and used it to slap John across the face, then he said, “Those’re horrible, mate, just horrible, y’know.

I said to him, “State your business, mortal!” There was no need for me to call him “mortal” or to speak like a sixteenth-century knight. It just sounded cool.

George had taken off all ten of his fingers and tied them into a bundle with what appeared to be either his own small intestines.

Then he said in his most excellent Mick impression, “Your powers are useless against Ninja Lords, O great zombie hunter! Surrender or feel the sting of the shuriken!

John showed up to rehearsal with a long list of name suggestions, and I remember each and every one of them.

Or a guitar string; as I walked into the room, he lovingly placed the bundle on his head.

George Harrison: The day after the Blue Angel audition.