Tomorrow Never Cares

An Exclusive interview with John Lennon
by Kerry Joyce & William Ham
illustration by Jef Taylor

Mr. Lennon, you’re one of the most successful pop performers of the century, and you’ve been dead for, I dunno, 15 years or something. How does it feel?
Well, you know we all shine on and all that roobish but it gets to be a bit of a drag, you know. EVERYBODY shining on all at once and that. I mean it doesn’t have to be me that’s shining the brightest, but if somebody, anybody would, it’d liven up the place some. It’s worse than bloody Hamburg.

So are you still singing and performing?
No more than anybody else, all the bloomin’ time. I mean, that’s all we do up here is sing praises unto God. The accomodations are nice, splendid in fact, don’t get me wrong. It’s better than the Dakota. Heavens, yes. But I didn’t have to sing to the concierge about how GOOD the accomodations were eight days a fookin’ week at the Dakota. It gets a bit tedious, it’s like when Paul wanted to do a hundred fookin’ remixes of “Octopus’s Garden.” We spent an eternity on that bloody song. He thought it was some kind of brilliant song, and I mean it wasn’t bad and all that, but you know, “Octobloodypus’s Garden,” after a while you just wanna come oop for some bloody air, have a smoke and look at something besides a bloody octopus. You’d’ve needed a fooking octopus in the studio turning every knob in the place to make that song more than it was, which was a little bit if not mooch.

Have you been able to follow the trends in popular music from your new vantage point?
Well, I saw Paul on Saturday Night Live, if that’s what you mean. “He was a biker, and the biker didn’t like her, but she loved that biker like an icon.” What a load of old shite. He should get Linda to write his songs for him. It would be an improvement. I did meet that kid, what’s his name, Cobain? I was joking with him about how every fookin’ bastard in the press was calling him “the new Lennon” and all that. I told him, “You got it all wrong, Kurty-boy, someone has to shoot you.” We had a bit of a giggle over that one. Well, I did, anyway.

What do you think of the Beatles reunion and the remix of some your outtakes?
Well, you know George and Ringo. They were always whining about money. They’d set my farts to music if there was a quid in it for ’em. And you know, I wouldn’t mind hearing it. I haven’t had the chance to really rip one in quite some time. That’s what I miss about living, really living, it’s the little things.

You obviously didn’t have much of a chance to state your case on The Beatles Anthology. Are there any misconceptions that you’d like to clear up for the record?
The walrus was Ringo. I’m surprised nobody’s figured that out yet. I mean, compare the two sometime. It’s fookin’ uncanny.

Are there any opportunities to explore your creative side up there?
Well, I could, you know. I’ve been approached by Saint Paul, and Saint George, and even some bloke who calls himself Saint Ringo, but you know, without Yoko, there really isn’t much point. I told them if they could hook something up with her, maybe we could work something out, you know. At least an album cover or something, but they won’t go along with it. They think she’s evil or some bloody thing, but I keep telling them she isn’t. Pretentious, yes. Evil, no.

So, how do you keep yourself busy up there?
We take turns beating the fook out of Albert Goldman. Boy, was I well stoked when he came to town. Usually, I’ll take one arm, Lenny Bruce will take the other, and Elvis pummels the shite out of him. He’s a black belt, you know. Of course, I don’t see much of the King these days. He’s always going back to Earth, you know, showing up in a trailer park, just to keep the plebes happy. And when he is up here, he’s usually hanging out with Nixon.

So, what’s God like?
He’s pretty small. Tiny delicate hands, with these huge saucer eyes, and his ears are fookin’ enormous, but his taste in music is up his arse. How much Andrew Lloyd Webber can one God listen to? But he’s so small, it’s almost freakish, really. Foony fellow, though. My first day here, he came up to me, sized me oop a little and said, “So I’m a concept by which you measure your pain, am I?” Then he leaned in and whispered, “That’s why I called you home early. Don’t piss off the big guy.” His son’s okay. One of the first things he said to me was, “You know, you four are more popular than me. Try as I may, I just can’t sell as many albums.” Still, he somehow thinks that he and his Dad are real and that I’m just a bloody metaphor. What an ego. He’s not the only martyr in this place, you know. I was teaching him guitar for a while, you know, so that when he comes back, he can really make an impression. I gave up on him after a while. Keeps asking me to teach him “Rocky Raccoon.” Fook, man…

Any message for the folks back on Earth?
Just one. Hey Paul, go to bloody hell, and take Linda with you.