http://www.wingspan.ru/bookseng/giuliano/contents.htmlКнижка интересна воспоминаниями Денни и Джо Джо Лейн (не знаю насколько уж им можно верить).
Как вам, например, такой фрагмент, о том как Джимми Маккалок едва не пристрелил Пола и Линду:
"...The final straw, however, came as a result of Jimmy protesting the decidedly un-showbiz way McCartney elected to treat his superstar cohorts. "We were staying in a pretty rundown cottage," says Denny, "but again, it wasn't that bloody bad. It's just that Jimmy and the roadies got drunk one night and wrecked the place even more than it was." Being a true country mama, Linda prized her homegrown chicken eggs, which she and Paul took great care to collect each morning at the crack of dawn. On the day in question, Jimmy, in a drunken huff, decided to redecorate the cottage's shabby kitchen by slamming a couple of dozen of Linda's finest against the dank, dirty walls. "Linda started to cry and was apparently really upset," Jo Jo remembers. "So Paul went to try and calm him down but then freaked out himself when he saw the terrible mess."
"You apologize to Linda!" McCartney shouted at the pissed-up little Scot, "or get off the farm."
"Fuck you, you bastard. I'm getting off your fuckin' shit-hole farm. I've had enough of both you lot." At that point, says Jo Jo, Paul had the pathetically plastered muso securely by the throat, loosening his grip only after McCulloch made a definite move towards the door.
McCartney certainly didn't enjoy these horrific little scenes, and was basically only reacting to Jimmy's tantrums. McCulloch, it seemed, often brought out the worst in people. "We were always putting Jimmy in his place," Denny recalls. "I would shout at him to grow up, literally. Once he'd sobered up though he was quiet as a mouse. I guided Jimmy through lots of things, you know. I even got him out of jail for drinking and driving. We were with Frank Zappa once and he fell over the table, face down on the floor. I mean we've all done it, don't get me wrong. We've all had our moments, but Jimmy seemed to have more moments than anyone else."
Determined not to allow the often overbearing McCartney to have the final word, after Paul and the others had cleared off to the other side of the farm, Jimmy walked calmly to his guitar case and pulled out a small nickel-plated, pearl-handled revolver he kept secretly hidden in one of the soft side-pockets. "Just let the cunt fuck with me again," proclaimed McCulloch to the same four walls that had oppressed him so during his unhappy term on the farm. "Let's see them laugh this one off."
Sitting alone in the deserted, cold stone hovel, Jimmy propped himself up against one of the picnic tables in the so-called dining area and meticulously began cleaning and then recleaning his illegally purchased .22 caliber handgun, all the while downing great gulps of scotch. He had his mind on only one thing: revenge. "I'll get my own back on the bastard," he ranted, getting up only occasionally to pace back and forth across the cement floor. A little past eleven, McCulloch took one last long swig from the bottle, smashed it against the wall, and rose, shoving the gun into his coat pocket. Switching off the light, he made his way out into the dark starry night, stumbling in the direction of the McCartneys' one-story bungalow.
About halfway there the hopelessly stoned guitarist tripped over his own feet, making just enough noise to alert the McCartneys' several dogs of the presence of an intruder. Rushing close by, the animals whimpered for a second at the sight of the diminutive McCulloch, but silently turned away as he quietly called them all by name. Taking a moment to gather himself, he rose soundlessly and continued his deadly stroll right up to the McCartneys' partially opened bedroom window. Peering into the darkened room, he saw the former teenage heart throb and his Shetlandish wife sleeping soundly, cuddled together in a comfortable tangle. His heart pounding so loudly he was afraid it might wake them, he carefully reached into his pocket, slowly drawing out the fully loaded weapon. Pausing not for a moment, McCulloch pointed the gun at McCartney's face, later telling Jo Jo he had planned to shoot the sleeping Beatle through the eye, and then do the same to Linda. His arm outstretched through the window, within a few seconds his hand began to shake, at first almost imperceptibly, and then fully, violently, until even holding onto the tiny revolver seemed impossible. Summoning up the courage to make good on his mental threat, Jimmy began slowly pulling back the trigger, measuring its progress by the tiniest fractions. Watching the shiny hammer tediously pulling itself back, gathering up the momentum to launch the explosive charge that would free him once and for all from the oppressive McCartneys, McCulloch suddenly changed his mind at the last micro-second and caught it with his thumb.
Panicking, he turned and ran furiously towards the narrow winding creek that cut through McCartney's farm on its way to a swollen pond at the bottom of a nearby gully. There, without really thinking about it, he put the gun into his mouth, intent that the terrible night should not end without bloodshed. Just then he was distracted by the harpooning lights of Denny and Jo Jo's van, stretching across the night sky. Dropping the gun, he felt suddenly drained beyond words. There was no point in carrying on, he thought to himself. Why bother? He was already dead."
