One for the Road column: Fangirling

I love The Beatles as much as the next person, but, no matter how many times you show me tapes of teenage girls shrieking, weeping and soiling themselves at the mere sight of the Fab Four, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to relate to that level of fandom.

I stuck on Martin Scorsese’s new Beatles ‘64 documentary the other night, which tells the story of the band’s first visit to America… And it is insane.

Through a blend of never-before-seen footage captured by a camera crew at the time, surreal news reels, stills of hysteric headlines, and interviews with the band and their frighteningly fanatical fans, Scorsese transports us back to the open-air asylum that was New York City in February 1964.

If this moment wasn’t the height of BeatleMania, then I never want to see the height of BeatleMania, for fear that I’ll go blind or mad or straight to hell if I do.

Scorsese’s film is full of clips of young women behaving as though being raised heavenward by some rapturous experience – possibly religious, sexual or both.

Now, I’d be lying if I said that a tear was never brought to my eye while listening to The Beatles.

However, it would be an offense against the human heart to claim that these special moments of emotional connection with their music is in anyway commensurate with the face-crumpling combination of ecstasy and pain felt by the thousands of wee girls who waited for the bands’ plane to land at Kennedy Airport that fair morning in ‘64.

To say I understand how those cuddies felt would be like showing an amputee my paper cut and saying, ‘Here lad, I feel your pain’.

Anyway, as I watched all the madness unfold the other night, I nevertheless searched for some common ground that could form an emotional land bridge between myself and the soggy-cheeked, weak-kneed girls on the screen.

I thought of the time when as a teenager boxer I met Olympic medallists Michael Conlan and Paddy Barnes.

It was certainly pretty cool, but I didn’t have to discard my underwear afterwards.

Next thing came to my mind was the time I met Martin McGuinness – which, in hindsight, was a massive privilege.

However, at the time, while at some level appreciating that I was shaking hands with one of the most important figures in the history of the North, I mostly just felt like I was being introduced to an affable old grandfather.

I certainly don’t recall trying to prostrate myself at his feet or attempting to plant the lips on him, anyway.

Then there was the day in Belfast that I seen Carl Frampton and simply shouted, ‘Go on The Jackal!’

I distinctly remember thinking that this non-invasive act would be unbelievably refreshing to Frampton, who was probably torured by people looking a photo with him, thus would undoubtedly land me in his good books.

A few hours later I remember ruing the fact I had not also shouted my name, intuiting that Frampton was probably sitting at the end of his bed, head in hands, wishing that he could reach out and ask me to go for a rake of pints.

Then, all of a sudden my ‘fangirl’ moment came to me.

Earlier this year I visited Budapest and paid a visit to a place called Memento Park – which is basically a couple of acres on the outskirts of the city, that has been turned into graveyard for old Soviet statues that were torn down in 1991.

It was there that I seen a massive statue of the Father of the Bolshevik Revolution (and mass murderer), Vladimir Lenin.

For some reason, which I’m pretty sure had more to do with historical fascination than, say, unadulterated adoration, I went a bit weird and had to get a photo taken, as per the picture of me and the big fella positioned above.

Anyway, as I sat on the sofa the other night, it finally clicked.

“And there it is – one girl’s Lennon is another girl’s Lenin.”