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  1. #1

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    Jul 2001
    No longer Castro Valley, California

    Default A letter to Paul McCartney....from the ex-"Mr. Mills"

    Check it out....

    In a knockabout letter to Sir Paul, Chris Terrill, the man Heather left for the former Beatle, says all is forgiven (just) and that he’s playing Sgt Pepper again

    We have never met. There has been no reason for us to meet. We are from different worlds and have very little in common.
    The differences between us are many and obvious. You are one quarter of the most famous combo the world has ever seen and have written some of the best-known and loved songs in history. I know four chords on the guitar and can only sing off-key (a talent I am quite proud of).

    You are globally famous. I am quite well known in my office. You are fabulously wealthy. I am a freelance filmmaker — so say no more! You have a knighthood. I have a certificate confirming I completed the London marathon. You like tofu. I don’t.

    Yet, we do have something that connects us. We fell in love with the same woman. More than that — we loved her at the same time.

    I am the bloke Heather left in the lurch for you five years ago. No hard feelings now. All is fair in love and war and all that. And, in any case, as things have turned out, I should probably thank you for having taken my seat on a plane that was doomed to crash in flames.

    But I didn’t always feel that way. For years, I have to admit I felt antipathy towards you. No one likes being cuckolded but usually it’s possible to move on, find new love and forget the past. This was difficult in my case — actually impossible in the case of forgetting the past. Wherever I looked, I saw pictures in papers, magazines, on television of my ex-fiancée arm in arm with you — one of the world’s favourite and most photographed icons.

    It would have been easier to stomach if you had been an arse, but sadly you are a nice guy and I had to accept that I had not lost her to a cad and blackguard. Worse than that, though, I found it difficult to listen to your music any more. My extensive Beatles collection was banished to a cupboard and stayed there until this morning actually. Got Sergeant Pepper on right now! So, despite our manifest differences, I do feel a certain connection with you. Maybe, one day we could have a beer together and compare notes because we have both been “Heathered” — and that is something a chap never forgets.

    For the record, though, now that I feel I can talk to you, there are a couple of things I would like to clear up.

    When I met Heather, I almost immediately fell under her spell. She does cast a spell, doesn’t she? After only 12 days of knowing her, I went out to Cambodia to make a film with her about landmines and there, on a fishing boat in the Mekong Delta, I proposed to her. Madness! Talk about whirlwind.

    I remember phoning my family to tell them. To say they were shocked would be an understatement. I think they thought, oh God, what is Christopher up to now? They know that I have a tendency to get embroiled in rather outlandish adventures sometimes or, in this case, as it turned out, a total misadventure.

    I was for a brief period of time completely happy. I thought Heather was too. We shared many romantic meals together in Cambodia (I seem to remember that quite a lot of animal flesh was consumed — sorry) and we planned our future together. I was struck by her amazing life and all her incredible accomplishments. How could someone so young have done so much and achieved so much? An unbelievable woman.

    I was struck by the fact that she did not want a fancy engagement ring. She just wanted a simple bamboo ring we bought in a local market. A true romantic, I thought. This was a union made in heaven. To cement our commitment, we joined the mile-high club on our way back to Britain. Sorry. Probably too much information there.

    For about three months, life seemed perfect. But, then, I was under a spell. My family, I now know, were having crisis meetings to try to decide what on earth to do about what they assumed was an attack of complete insanity on my part.

    My father had read her “autobiography” and found, to his distress, that she collected fiancés and what she called soulmates like other people collect stamps. Actually, butterflies would be a better simile. Poor little buggers — netted and then spread-eagled on a board with a sodding great pin through their thorax.

    Anyway, then came that fateful day my parents met her. I took Heather home to introduce her. I was still in a trance, of course, with wide unblinking eyes and a sort of mad fixed grin. So while I provided the idiotic face, my family did their best to provide a brave one. They knew instinctively she was wrong for me but couldn’t say anything for fear of losing me. You see, I was a complete goner. It was a mighty powerful spell.

    I soon realised that Heather had a somewhat elastic sort of relationship with the truth, which she was able to stretch quite impressively sometimes. But, under her spell as I was, I simply accepted these jaunty exaggerations as part of her eccentric charm. She pampered me, massaged my ego and fed me all my favourite dishes. Her speciality was Lancashire hot pot (oops!).
    Not long after this, something happened that will amuse you. We were sitting on her sofa at home watching the box. The film I made of her in Cambodia was about to come on when the phone went. I answered it and a voice said: “Is Heather there please?” I was sure I recognised your voice and said to Heather “It’s for you — I think it’s Paul McCartney!” I then handed the phone over to her so technically I suppose I introduced her to you. What a fateful moment that was, eh? Anyway, that was the start of something big, wasn’t it? You offered her £150,000 for her charity, saying you wanted to help her cause. You rascal! In fact, as I understand it, you came over to my flat one night to hand over the cheque to her. I wasn’t there but my neighbours saw you and thought I must know all the best people. It did my street cred no end of good, although that was all to come crashing down soon enough.

  2. #2

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    Jul 2001
    No longer Castro Valley, California

    Default Part 2 of letter


    Our wedding approached. We did a deal with Hello! magazine and arranged for an open-air, humanist ceremony down in the New Forest. The marquee went up. Wedding presents arrived from John Lewis. I got my fancy suit sorted out (complete with leopardskin waistcoat) and Heather got her dress (can’t tell you about that. Never saw it). The honeymoon was booked (one week in the Seychelles and one week in Zimbabwe).

    And then six days before the wedding, I had my stag night. I returned in the early hours the worse for wear, as you do, and collapsed into bed beside Heather.

    The next morning I woke up to find Heather already dressed. “I’m just off to the airport to collect Fiona,” she said. Her sister was coming in from Greece for the wedding, you see. “Okay,” I murmured, holding my sore head. “Bye.” “Bye,” she replied.

    And that was the last time I saw her.

    She phoned a couple of hours later to say simply:

    “It’s off!” “But, but . . .” I gurgled.

    “It’s off,” she repeated. “One hundred per cent off!” Well, the spell was broken in a heartbeat and I was now in a very different sort of trance. I was devastated and also humiliated. I phoned my father. “The wedding is off,” I said. There was a pause. “Christopher,” he said finally, “I have never been so relieved in all my life.”

    I did my best to get through that time, but it was not easy. The wedding arrangements had to be unarranged. Guests informed. Presents returned. But also, of course, caterers had to be paid as did the marquee people. Nightmare.

    But worse was to come.

    I then found out, though I will never be completely sure of the timing involved, that you had become a significant figure in her life. That was not easy to handle.

    “What’s Paul McCartney got that I haven’t?” I bleated to my friends. My friends said nothing. They just looked at each other with raised eyebrows.

    “No, no,” I said, realising what they were implying. “Heather might be a bit of a fantasist, but she is not driven by money. Look at the bamboo ring she wanted from Cambodia.” I still wanted to believe the best about her — even then. But it got more and more difficult.

    Now, I don’t know what she told you about me but I have my suspicions. You see, it wasn’t long before friends of mine in the media were phoning me to tell me that Heather was going around telling everyone the reason she had left me was that I was gay.

    Well, Macca, I have to tell you, gay is one thing I am not. Out of respect to my gay friends I will not call it a slur, but it was a king-size porky. So to hear she was spreading this rumour was not pleasant. But it was an effective smokescreen for her to hide behind, I suppose. Suddenly, her ability to reinvent the truth was not quite so endearing.
    If that was not enough, I then heard something even more bizarre. You see, once I had confided to her that I had, in a previous incarnation, had a brief brush with the intelligence services when I was contemplating a career with the Foreign Office. What a mistake that was. I then heard that she had inflated this into the idea that I was an

    MI6 agent whose mission was to infiltrate her world and sabotage her anti-landmine work in order to protect the British arms industry. So, she had me down as James Bond. In fact a gay James Bond. What would Judi Dench say about that? Anyway, life moved on. I did find it quite difficult to make subsequent relationships work, to be honest. I went through quite a few girlfriends and just could not give those relationships the attention they deserved. I was, for a while, quite untrusting and unable to commit. Poor girls. A bloke that has been “Heathered” is not always a good bet. Well, I wasn’t anyway.

    Gradually, the clouds lifted. My life returned to some sort of normality. In fact, after a while, I could hardly believe what had happened, but it provided me with a great line for cocktail parties — almost Pythonesque: “Yes, I was once six days away from marrying a one-legged, ex-glamour model who is now married to a Beatle!” Some of my more outlandish exes were very excited as they felt they could now claim to be related to you. You gotta laugh, haven’t you? Life’s too short not to.

    So, Macca. I hope you are okay. Time heals all, as they say. We have both experienced the same feelings towards the same extraordinary woman and both, to a greater or lesser extent, been wounded by those feelings. But I have to say this. I totally agree with you that Heather is not a gold digger. I think she is someone who desperately wants recognition and is frustrated when it does not come the way she wants it. Her men suffer because of it, but then so does she.

    The irony is she has so many authentic qualities that could provide her with the recognition she craves that she really doesn’t need to reinvent herself the way she does. I have seen for myself her remarkable ability to counsel those who have lost limbs and her astonishing determination to get something done. Her motives? I am not always sure about those. But she is a force to be reckoned with and no mistake.

    I was considering writing to Heather but I think I will leave it. But, for what it’s worth, I hope both you and she find some peace now. Thanks for reading this letter, Macca, if you have. Just wanted to get a few things off my chest and to say hi really.

    Must go now. Sergeant Pepper has finished. I think I will listen to Revolver now and then A Hard Day’s Night and then Help!. Glad to have you back in my life, mate.

    PS Don’t know what you are going to settle on with her, but please make sure it is enough that she can pay me back for the damned wedding.

    PPS If you ever want that beer, give me a bell.
    You can find the letter online here.
    Last edited by Danny Tse; 05-23-2006 at 12:10 PM.

  3. #3

    Member Sales Rating: (13)

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    Mar 2002
    The Mars Hotel


    'Political Correctness'.........defined

    "A doctrine fostered by a delusional, illogical minority and rabidly promoted by an unscrupulous mainstream media, which holds forth the proposition that it is entirely possible to pick up a turd by the clean end."

  4. #4

    Member Sales Rating: (2)

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    May 2003


    Anyone want to play hopscotch?

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