Today, they’re everywhere. Conspiracy theories. It’s what especially social media has wreaked on the malleable psyche of the world.
Like all the other online clutter, it’s what feeds our head today. It’s definitely not the same White Rabbit that Grace Slick was singing about all those years ago.
Once upon a Beatlemania, the only conspiracy theory that mattered was whether Paul was dead and replaced by Billy Shears.
After all, the clues were laid out for us, especially on the Abbey Road album cover. There were the Beatles crossing the road with Paul in bare feet, apparently the Greek way of burying their dead, whereas George in denim symbolised the grave digger, Ringo being the priest and John, all in white representing- I think- the angel.
No one wants to see anyone facing financial problems. Anyone who rejoices in this needs to be kicked out of the human race.
So, while we chant the mantra about how we’re all in this together- there’s no point regurgitating what “this” is- many of us have seen people we know and even friends go through extremely taxing financial times- young entrepreneurs, mature entrepreneurs, new businesses, old businesses, fledgling businesses.
At least in Hong Kong, except for those born with a silver spoon in their mouths and others always used to stirring their tea with a diamond studded spoon and jockeys- those who ride horses and not those churning out beats- money is too tight to mention.
It’s stating the obvious to say that the Beatles were special. But to someone who decided to drop a tab of acid in his early teens for the first time not knowing what to expect, they took me on a Magical Mystery Tour.
It was a twelve hour trip to Camelot, the Wild West, where I was shot in the back during a poker game while holding a “dead man’s hand” and developed what’s known as a Wild Bill Hickock Complex. Even today, I cannot sit anywhere without my back to the wall. Hey, Bungalow Bill, indeed.