We Interrupt This Regularly Scheduled Bossy For A Brief Letter From Paul McCartney.

Dear Heather,

Maybe I’m Amazed that Yesterday court documents were leaked to the press in which you accuse me of stabbing you with a wineglass. You are off your trolley! Everybloodybody knows you can’t stab someone with a stinking goblet, you Twit! You Can’t Do That! I’m So Tired of your beastly lies.

Especially when you accuse me of still doing drugs. Bollocks. A 60-pound brick of hashish isn’t going to kill anyone – unless it falls on your head – so naff off! And then there’s the claim that on Another Day I made you crawl up the steps to my Jet because it wasn’t wheelchair accessible. Followed by the accusation that I always made you hobble to the bathroom on one leg because I refused to allow you to use a bedpan. Well, yeah. Do You Want To Know A Secret? Your prosthesis skeeves me a little.

Listen My Love, When Linda died I said to myself, “All I’ve Got To Do is meet a stringy-haired blonde to saunter beside me on The Long And Winding Road and I’ll have No More Lonely Nights.” Here was our deal: I would provide All My Loving with no prenuptial agreement and in return you would accompany me to award shows dressed like the Little Mermaid.

But sadly our marriage was so brief it was like Hello Goodbye. With A Little Luck I can escape this mess with a small portion of my 1.6 billion in tact.

Because you’re also going around saying I didn’t want you to breastfeed because I don’t like the taste of milk. You cheeky bugger – I quite like milk! Especially in my tea. With a lump of hashish. Can’t you just Let It Be? I’m not saying I want to Get Back together – This Boy has plenty of options. With A Little Help From My Friends I can meet a nicer one-legged woman – and the beauty part is You Won’t See Me.

Because I get the feeling If I Fell in a large hole and called your name there’d be No Reply. Or if you did answer you’d say something blinkered like, “Funny how You Never Give Me Your Money but now you require Help.”

Oh! Darling. If only we never met. If only instead of a wedding I would have purchased you a Ticket To Ride the express train to Shrewsbury. Because I’ve Just Seen A Face – it’s a sweet round face and it belongs to my daughter Stella who introduced us and is now 1.6 billion dollars shy her rightful inheritance.

Speaking of children, I really think we ought to try to Come Together for the sake of Baby Beatrice. I’m sure We Can Work It Out to split custody between the lavish estate you will purchase with your divorce settlement earnings and the bugger-all shack I will acquire with the financial crumbs. The Things We Said Today don’t necessarily have to tarnish whatever’s Coming Up. Just Call Me Back Again, OK? I’m ready to smoke some Pipes Of Peace – as long as they’re laced with a wee tad of hashish.

Don’t Let The Sun Catch You Lying Crying,

— Sir Paul