PEACE, MAN, AND WEED. ONE NIGHT IN THE ASHRAM.

The 1960s made superstars of the most unlikely; John Lennon, the luckiest Liverpudlian in history, bar Ringo Starr, befriended young Donovan Leitch and took him to India to visit the Maharishi and both brought their formidable intellectual powers to the question of world peace. Lennon, for instance, sat in a bag in expensive hotels, we can but imagine how much worse things might now be without Johnny's intervention, the fucking arsehole. With delusions of staggering grandeur, Leitch was a clunking, third-rate, nasally facsimile of Bob Dylan, Lennon of Elvis Presley; improbably fortunate in his partnership with Paul McCartney, both Beatles blessed by their involvement with George Martin, the wife abusing, cowardly, bullying smackhead, Lennon, was thwarted in his endeavours to bring global peace by someone shooting him eight-times dead, never mind though, although John died for Peace, his soulmate, Yoko, the orgasming octogenarian of the Later programme, continues to delight with her artistic genius and young Donovan remains cemented into his flower power, hippy-trippy, Hare Krishna vision. Sometimes it’s embarrassing to be a babyboomer.