In 1977, the King of Spain suggested using Alexis Mardas (‘Magic Alex’) as an intermediary in his request for $10m in financial support from the Shah of Iran.

The episode is recorded in the published diaries of Asadollah Alam, the former minister of the court to the Shah. In June 1977, Alam’s diaries include a letter from King Juan Carlos I of Spain to the Shah at a time when his country was transitioning to democracy.

Juan Carlos had only recently acceded to the throne, following the death of Spain’s dictator Franco in 1975. Designated for years as Franco’s chosen successor, he had publicly supported the authoritarian leader – but once in power, began to oversee liberal reforms.

The king’s belief in democracy, however, had its limits. In his letter to the Shah, he wrote that in the recent election, Spain’s socialist party had recently “obtained a higher than expected percentage of the vote”, posing “a serious threat to the country’s security and to the stability of the monarchy”.

On this basis, Juan Carlos submitted for the Shah’s “generous consideration the possibility of granting $10m as your personal contribution to the strengthening of the Spanish monarchy”.

This would be used to assist Spain’s centrist party, led by prime minister Adolfo Suarez, against the “Marxist” danger.

Juan Carlos added:

“Should my request meet with your approval, I take the liberty to recommend a visit to Tehran by my personal friend Alexis Mardas, who can take receipt of your instructions”.

In the Shah’s response the next month, he said he would comment on the issue “by word of mouth”: there is no indication that he provided the requested money1.

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Magic Alex’s royal connections

Regardless of Juan Carlos’ motives, the letter suggests that Alexis Mardas did – as he claimed – have connections with such elevated figures. The king described Mardas as his “personal friend”, and evidently believed Alexis’ acquaintance with the Shah could help his cause.

This lines up with other evidence of Magic Alex’s international royal links. Last year while on the Greek island of Hydra, I was told that he had photographs of both Juan Carlos and the Shah in his house – and heard various other references to Mardas’ Iranian connections.

One person mentioned a particularly close Iranian friend called ‘Roudi’ (they also believed that an impressive mansion associated with Alexis had actually belonged to her). It seems very likely that this refers to Roudabeh Alam, the late daughter of Asadollah – the Shah’s minister whose diaries record the exchange above.

Juan Carlos’ letter shows how Mardas was able to develop influence by understanding what was important to people with power, and helping to solve their problems. Arguably, these were tactics he also used on the Beatles.

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“Danger – Keep away”, reads a sign on the wall of a white-painted house on the Greek island of Hydra. An elaborate scaffolding arrangement props up the building’s jutting first floor. I walk beneath its crumbling plaster into a narrow passageway. On the right-hand wall is an arched entrance behind a gate that’s padlocked shut. Through the metal grille, I see several large ships’ anchors leaning against the walls – alongside plastic water bottles, a battered cardboard box and piles of rubble. A sign warns that CCTV is in operation. But beneath the peeling paint, the property’s grand character is still discernible. “It was a beautiful house,” says Takis.

Takis has shown me the way here from Hydra’s port, ten minutes up a steep cobbled path passing donkeys on the way down. I’d wanted to see the house because for many years it had a notable owner: Alexis Mardas, who in the later 1960s was known for his association with the Beatles. Mardas – dubbed ‘Magic Alex’ by John Lennon for his supposed technological wizardry – seemed to come from nowhere to join the Beatles’ inner circle as they reached their psychedelic pomp: he was with them on the Magical Mystery Tour bus, in India, at the live satellite broadcast of ‘All You Need Is Love’. He also became an official employee, overseeing the electronics division of their company, Apple – with ambitions of creating mind-blowing inventions and a new state-of-the-art studio. For all this, his role in their story doesn’t yet feel fully understood.

Magic Alex is also at the heart of the various mysteries surrounding the group’s attempt to buy a Greek island in 1967. Those still-unanswered questions include the names for places that don’t exist on maps, and Mardas’ alleged connections to Greece’s military dictatorship that led to the Beatles unwittingly being “used… as propaganda” for the regime. The financial aspects of the island plans – including Mardas’ claim that the proposed investment could help save the group tax – also remain unclear. Without Magic Alex’s efforts, these intriguing puzzles would probably not exist. But who was he, and why was he so apparently influential? I hoped coming to Hydra might provide some answers.

After parting ways with the Beatles around the time of their breakup, Mardas lived a wide-ranging life. But before his death in 2017, aged 75, he spent much of his time on this island – particularly in the 1980s and 1990s. Its arty, discreet glamour seems like a good fit for him. In the 1960s, it was home to a bohemian expat community that included a pre-fame Leonard Cohen. Though visitors are now considerably better-shod, the island – where cars are still banned – retains a cosmopolitan elegance. In the harbour, small boats rock gently alongside gleaming superyachts. The port town rises around it on three sides, creating a natural arena covered with white and terracotta houses. It’s a place to see and be seen – but to be careful who you tell. My attempts to learn more about Mardas seemed to encounter a similar spirit. Lots of people had heard of him. But those who could or would say anything definite were hard to find, and harder to pin down.

‘A mysterious pirate’s den’

The previous evening I’d spoken to Takis in Pirate Bar – an all-day venue he runs on a busy corner of the port, and a reliable hub of local gossip. Takis, who co-founded the bar in 1976, recalled that Mardas was friendly and well-liked but “strange”. He spent a lot of time with “famous people” and had come to his establishment twice with Joan Collins, star of the 1980s TV soap Dynasty. According to Takis, Mardas had been involved in various projects on Hydra, including a freight ferry business. But “you never know if he say the truth or not,” he warned. “He’s been good with me – with everybody. But a lot of talk.”

As well as his house near the port, Mardas also had another large property in a different part of the island, Takis said – which he’d renovated and later sold. But Takis had heard people question how Magic Alex found the money to fund such purchases, suggesting “rich people” could have been involved – “because sometimes the guy is broke”. At some point Mardas had also stopped coming to his town house. It was said that “the bank took it”, Takis said: he’d heard that two years ago people had come to “take all the stuff out”.

Whatever Magic Alex was doing, he did well from it for a long time. His town property was included in a 2015 photograph book featuring 40 of Hydra’s “most attractive houses”1. Images depict a “labyrinthine creation”, formed from several smaller properties into “very comfortable living spaces”, where “terraces, patios and living rooms follow one another on different levels”. The “small living room” (which actually looks fairly large) features an Iranian rug, contemporary art pieces and intricately embroidered cushions. A photo of the “library”, with a wood-beamed roof, includes a table of spirit bottles and a wall lined with “ancient editions of books”. I also recognise the archway with the grille I’d looked into. In the photo, the black anchors are displayed alongside old lamps, and large plants in clay jars – evoking “a mysterious pirate’s den”.

The book also refers to “a few unusual work rooms” – but it wasn’t until I spoke to one of Mardas’ former neighbours that I began to realise just how unconventional his house was. “It was a mysterious place,” said Stephan Colloredo-Mansfeld, who I met at a recording studio he runs on Hydra – very near Mardas’ old house, with stunning views over the port. Stephan told me he’d looked around the property in 2014, when it was already up for sale. He’d been interested in buying the impressive abode – which also featured a swimming pool and a “cinema room” with aeroplane seats, and was offered at €5m, he said. But the alterations Mardas had made created major administrative problems. “You can’t just build randomly like he did… You need permits for everything.”

The house’s decoration suggested powerful connections and a colourful personal life. When viewing it, Stephan saw photographs on display of people he identified as Juan Carlos I, the former king of Spain, and the Shah of Iran. Other elements were more surprising. The house “had Kalashnikovs and guns, a room with sex toys,” said Stephan, adding that Mardas “collected wheelchairs”. Stephan showed me a photograph he’d taken from the 2014 visit that appeared to show several assault rifles, and another of what he called a “vagina lamp” – shaped in an anatomically explicit representation of a woman’s body. Less surprisingly, another image showed a stack of electronic equipment with wires everywhere. Others showed cushions embroidered with slogans: “Good girls go to heaven. Bad girls go everywhere” and “Anyone who tells you money can’t buy happiness doesn’t know where to shop”.

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‘He was a weird guy’

You wouldn’t find guns and pictures of kings in every home – but from what we know about Mardas’ life, they make some sense. According to media reports in the 1970s, his post-Beatles business activities included providing security equipment to various royal families around the world. In 2010, Mardas detailed several companies he founded, which he said sold products including “night vision products”, “armoured cars” and “bullet proof vests”. He claimed to have worked for clients including the UK and German ministries of defence, as well as the governments of more than ten other countries – including Iran, Spain, Egypt and Saudi Arabia. This work led to him developing “personal friendships with the kings of Greece, Jordan, Spain, Morocco, and with the President of Egypt and Prime Minister of Canada”.

Some of the objects Stephan said he saw in Mardas’ home back up reports of Alexis’ defence-adjacent work for powerful individuals and organisations. But who Mardas lived with on the proceeds of such activities – if anyone – is typically unclear. In 1968, Mardas married Euphrosyne Doxiadis, the daughter of a renowned architect, in London. The couple had two children, but they seem to have separated by the 1980s (I didn’t hear of any personal memories of Euphrosyne on Hydra). In 1993, he wedded the actress Tania Trypi on the island (they had one child, and divorced in 1997). I heard various mentions of other female companions, as well as house staff. But whatever the details, his main focus was not domesticity but extravagant socialising.

Stephan described him as “a big ladies’ man”, saying “he always had models here”, and held “crazy parties”. He’d attended some of these – but says that since he was a young boy at the time, he doesn’t have many memories. I was, however, able to speak on the phone to Stephan’s mother, Kristina, who despite no longer living on Hydra, does remember the events.

“He did have a lot of international friends who came to stay with him in the house, and he was always giving great parties,” Kristina, now 84, told me – “to which I was often invited.” These would typically involve “a wonderful dinner”, she recalled. “There was no drugs which you could see – there were probably some around – and just great conversations with different international people.” She also remembered Mardas once bringing Joan Collins to her house. “She came dressed up like a goddess with a long white dress, with her hair all done up. And then she came into my kitchen and said, ‘Oh, how quaint’.”

“He was a weird guy,” said Kristina of Mardas. “Nobody knew whether he was saying the truth or lying or whether what he was doing was what he was doing. He was a very mysterious character, and he liked to be mysterious.” She added that Mardas was “very hard to get to know well because he was very, very secretive, but always very generous and friendly and talkative. That’s the way he was. But I can’t tell you very much, because I don’t think anybody knows too much about him.”

Kristina added that there was “something always touching a little bit on the creepy, but not something you could discern and never sort of obvious in any way”. She remembered Mardas having “weird” girlfriends who were “very possessive about him”, speculating: “I think they were all in love with him because he was so mysterious”. She didn’t recall seeing sex toys in the house, but said: “I could imagine him having kind of a weird sex life – let’s put it that way”. In her view Mardas “wasn’t good looking or anything,” but “somehow he had quite an outstanding charm – he could really turn it on, so we could all fall for it”.

Being from an aristocratic family, Kristina Colloredo-Mansfeld is the kind of person that Mardas would have been interested in forging a connection with. Indeed, I heard of a rumour that at one point he had wanted to marry her. This may or may not explain some strange behaviour that Kristina recalls. After learning that she would be in Geneva, for instance, Mardas promised to meet her at a certain hotel in the city – but when she got to the agreed place “nobody had ever heard of him there”. Another time, he invited her horse riding, but it emerged that he had little knowledge of this activity after he put the saddle on “completely backwards”, said Kristina. “I think he was just making all this up – and anyway, and I never saw my saddle again … It just disappeared. And he kind of disappeared more and more from the island after that.”

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A second house in a secluded bay

Magic Alex’s eccentricity is no secret. But each conversation on Hydra seemed to reveal new depths to his strangeness. Hearing that he had a second house on the island only added to the intrigue. I was told the property was at Molos, a small coastal settlement a few miles from the main town. This was where Kristina said the horse-riding incident took place, and where Takis said Mardas had carried out extensive renovation work.

One day I decided to go and see this house for myself – which, due to Hydra’s car ban, meant a trip by sea taxi. I had a vague idea of trying to speak to the place’s current owners – if I could identify it. As the bay of Molos came into view, I realised I needn’t have worried. The property is immediately unmissable – a vast white building extending for about 70 metres along the pebbly beach, looking out over calm turquoise water and lurid green pines. Vast grounds extend further to each side and way back into the island, with well-tended paths flanked by palm trees and pink bougainvillea.

It isn’t the kind of house where you just go and ring the doorbell. But as it happened, I’d got there as someone was returning. When I walked closer to the property, I saw three men in polo shirts standing outside. Soon afterwards, an imposing superyacht pulled in. Two dogs ran out onto the beach, wagging their tails. Several people disembarked, assisted by crew and staff, and settled under a gazebo while I explored the property’s perimeter.

The grounds include a swimming pool, a tennis court, and various smaller buildings. (I later discovered from an online rental listing that the building accommodates 14 people, with seven bedrooms and seven bathrooms). Situated in a secluded bay, it seemed like the perfect getaway for a secretive man of mystery. As I walked along the beach in front of the house, I briefly stopped to try and speak to the people who’d got off the yacht. After learning that one was the building’s current owner, I explained that I was researching Alexis Mardas’ life on Hydra. Though we didn’t discuss the details, this person told me they had acquired the property before Mardas’ death.

The exact relationship Mardas had to the property, however, remains mysterious. Some seemed to doubt whether he was ever the sole owner, or even an owner at all. And there were suggestions that there had been a link to Mardas’ international connections – particularly those from Iran. One person I spoke to, who knew Mardas socially, was confident that the house had actually belonged to a well-connected Iranian friend, rather than Alexis himself. Another, though reluctant to talk, confirmed he had known Mardas – having sometimes taken him and friends, including Iranians, to the Molos house by sea taxi. Beyond that, this person would only say that Mardas was a “good man” who was generous with money – when he had it.

Iranian connections - and a deal gone wrong

The recurrent mentions of Iranian links align with a 1979 New Statesman article which claimed that the Shah of Iran – who ruled the country until being overthrown that year – “supplied much of the finance behind [Mardas’] companies”. These businesses specialised in the growing market for “anti-terrorist protection” such as armoured cars, said the report, with customers including an array of international rulers and royals. The article describes one London showroom as being “stocked with guns, electronic bugs and surveillance equipment”, and that the Shah (who died in 1980) was “one of the first customers for Mardas’s bulletproof cars”. I was told that Mardas displayed a photograph of the Shah in his house, and that he had close links with others in Iranian royal circles. Kristina Colloredo-Mansfeld said he held a “big dinner party” for someone she described as “the cousin of the Shah”.

So Iran seems to have had a particular significance for Mardas. But it certainly wasn’t the only focus of his business activities. And it played no known part in the problems that emerged in the 2000s, when things began to go awry. Rather, it was an attempt to buy a major television production studio near Athens that led to Mardas losing his Hydra town house. In July 2009, Mardas claimed in an interview that the 4,500 sq m premises would be equipped with “the latest technology” within months, saying he had discussed productions with a well-known director and companies from Dubai and Abu Dhabi. But in the wake of the global financial crisis, difficulties arose. In 2015, an employee of Hydra’s mortgage registry told the media that Mardas had lost the house, “possibly due to his debts to the state”. (According to the same report, the property was acquired by a private bank in December 2014.)

Before the bank took ownership of it, Tracy Gionis, an estate agent on Hydra, had been tasked by Mardas with promoting the house’s sale. When she first entered the building, it appeared it had been abandoned for years. Her impression was that it was “literally pick up in the middle of the night and leave”, she told me. “Everything was in its place… all his personal stuff, clothes, even a horse saddle,” she said, recalling: “He had a row of Ray-Ban glasses on his table – about 20 of them.” She told me she didn’t see guns or sex toys. But the deterioration of the property’s condition was “very sad,” Tracy added. “Some mice had got in and… nobody had been in to clean”. “I went in there and had a look and tried to promote it. I had somebody interested, but then the bank claimed it.”

Due to the lack of regulatory compliance, achieving a sale was clearly not straightforward. But Tracy told me that, after more than a decade, the property had recently been bought – for a fraction of its original asking price. The purchase presumably explains why in 2025, the house was “emptied”, as Tracy recalled, with Mardas’ belongings brought outside for people to take. Among the discarded items, Stephan Colloredo-Mansfeld identified what appeared to be a nugget of Beatles related-history. He retrieved a red box of EMI tape, labelled “The Beatles/George Harrison” – with the latter name apparently in Harrison’s own handwriting. The recording is labelled January 1967, and the listing refers to tracks on Harrison’s 1968 solo album, Wonderwall Music. When Stephan restored the tape, however, he found that whatever was previously on it had been replaced by several takes of the 1969 song ‘New Day’ by Jackie Lomax – a singer-songwriter who recorded on the Beatles’ label, Apple.

The object is a reminder that Mardas was not just a hanger-on: at one point, he had significant involvement in the Beatles’ lives and work. It was his rapport with John Lennon that initially gave him access to the group’s inner circle. Mardas’ ability to conjure up devices with randomly flashing lights, and other unusual gadgets, delighted the Beatle – particularly when he was tripping on LSD. John even described Alexis as his “new guru”. As head of Apple Electronics, Mardas was given responsibility to create a new studio for the group – but he left under a cloud after the facility was found to be unfit for purpose. And though the Beatles had been fond of Magic Alex, their producer George Martin did not share this view. While acknowledging that he was “certainly clever, a good electronic technician”, he described Mardas in his autobiography as “so preposterous that it would have been funny had he not caused so much embarrassment and difficulty with me in the recording studio”.

By the time of Mardas’ death, he had long since lost his former closeness to the Beatles – as he seems to have done with many other friends. It is said that he spent his last years in poor health: living with osteoarthritis, according to one obituary. And when he died in January 2017 at his apartment in Athens, no one realised for several days. By then, his time on Hydra was already passing into memory. Kristina Colloredo-Mansfeld recalled: “We heard that he had debts. He just became more and more mysterious, and everything became more and more weird.” The last time she saw Mardas, Kristina remarked to him that the town house was “looking very shabby”. After promising that he “must do something about that”, he invited her out for dinner and ordered lobster, which he left on the plate. “The next thing I knew, the whole place was up for sale.”

‘Half of his life was imaginary’

“He disappeared suddenly from Hydra,” according to Miranda Sofianou, whose owns a hotel on the island that has belonged to her family since the 1960s – and is an influential figure in Hydra’s cultural life. I met her at her house in Athens. She recalled Mardas as being “very capable – but half of his life was imaginary”. She attended several “very formal dinners” at his house, where she witnessed both his charm and his mythomania. As well as claiming to have been “the manager of the Beatles”, Miranda remembered Mardas boasting of his supposed medical expertise, saying of a prestigious Athens hospital that “when they have a serious problem, they call me”. Like others, she also recalled several strange aspects of Mardas’ home – including a “small hospital” with tools and oxygen, and another room containing “hundreds of keys”. But overall the property was “very beautifully done, with a great aesthetic” – and he “made a paradise” at Molos.

One reason Alexis held frequent parties was to “show off who he is, and how famous women were with him”, said Miranda. She believed Mardas “had the feeling of superiority… because he was very intelligent, very proud about himself and he wanted to live on a high level every day”. Aligning with what Stephan Colloredo-Mansfeld had seen, she recalled a table in the house with photographs signed by famous people, including King Juan Carlos of Spain, who Mardas spoke of “as [if] he was a very close friend”. “He knew how to enter, how to get into this society,” said Miranda. Alongside his legendary charm, one comment Mardas made to her suggests another important part of his strategy for doing this. He suggested that Miranda should try to become mayor of the island. “I said to him, ‘I wonder how’,” she remembered. “He said: ‘It’s a matter of spending money.’”

The remark seems to encapsulate Mardas’ approach to life. Rather than accept reality, he preferred to create his own, by whatever means he could. Whether he actually had the wealth and influence he claimed to hardly mattered. He pretended he did, until it came true. He bragged, flaunted and splurged, moving so fast that the line between reality and fiction became impossible to discern. Much of the time, it worked – until it didn’t. And when there was no need to charm, some saw a darker side to him. On one visit to his house, Miranda remembered, the way Alexis treated his then girlfriend “was not very nice [or] kind… not at all”. She later passed the woman on the street. “She was crying and she said, ‘I don’t think I will see you again,’” Miranda told me. “She should have left him before, I think, because this was not the behaviour of a gentleman to a lady.”

Trying to understand Mardas isn’t a simple matter. In fact, it often feels like peering through that padlocked gate into his decaying labyrinth. In my time on Hydra, I thought I’d got to know him at least a bit better. But just as I was about to depart, I learned some new information: as well as the two houses discussed here, Mardas also owned two more, smaller properties on the island. While not as significant as the large houses, the surprise underlined how little we still know about the man: the clouds of confusion he spun around himself continue to swirl. “You could not put him in a box,” said Miranda. “He was a box by himself. You could not understand if he was innocent, if he was very cunning, if he was a good man or he was evil. I cannot say. The only thing I could say [is] that I liked his company… every time I was with him, I had a great time.”

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While I was writing last month about the evolution of the ‘Blackpool tug-of-love’ myth, a new puzzle came to light – which prompts interesting questions about how the way we research and talk about the Beatles is changing in the digital age.

The issue raised the possibility that when discussing these events with the eminent Beatles historian Mark Lewisohn, Billy Hall got his own date of birth wrong. If this happened, it would of course cast serious doubt on the reliability of Hall – whose testimony was central to overturning the traditional narrative. But the only other explanation would be if the inaccuracy came from Lewisohn himself.

The conundrum related to a post Mark Lewisohn made on the Bluesky social network in April 2025. In response to a query from another user, he wrote (bold added for emphasis):

“Alf/Freddie Lennon had said the Blackpool incident happened at the house of his pal Billy Hall. I found Billy in 2009, in Auckland, NZ, age 85, the only living witness to a much mis-told event in young John Lennon’s life. And I got to the truth just in time – Billy died on his 90th birthday in 2013.”

The birth date mystery

From my research into these events, I was aware that Billy (later known as Bill) Hall had spoken to a New Zealand journalist – Steve Braunias of the Sunday Star-Times newspaper – in 2009, shortly before he spoke to Lewisohn. According to Braunias, Lewisohn had contacted him after the interview was published – and as a result, Braunias in turn put the historian in touch with Hall.

In December, I emailed Mark Lewisohn to check this timeline and offer him the chance to add anything further. I quickly received a detailed response setting out Lewisohn’s history of contact with Bill Hall and his family. He confirmed Braunias’ sequence of events – explaining that he approached the Sunday Star-Times in 2009 after being alerted to the reporter’s interview with Hall. Braunias then “kindly paved the way” for Lewisohn to speak to Bill, which happened in April 2009.

The email also included an explanation for a detail I hadn’t asked about – Mark Lewisohn’s claim that Bill died on his 90^th birthday. Lewisohn wrote that Hall was “born 3/9/1923 in England; so, time zone difference allowing, he died 90 years to the day that he was born”.

As confirmed in a Sunday Star-Times obituary, Hall did indeed die on 4 September 2013. But Bill’s birthday had also come up in my own research, and the date given by Lewisohn for this seemed to contradict what I thought was the case. I asked Lewisohn if he had a source for the birth date being in September, noting that I thought it was in April. He replied: “He told me his date of birth and I’d no reason to doubt it, and still don’t.”

Given this seemingly emphatic response – and since the timing of Bill’s birthday was not relevant to the post I was writing – I put the issue to one side. But later, I checked my records in detail. It turned out that in National Archives files I’d seen, there were five separate official documents all stating Bill Hall’s date of birth as 3 April, 1923. Bill’s daughter Josie had told me the same specific date when I spoke to her in 2024.

There seemed little doubt that Bill was born in April, not September. Confused, I contacted Mark Lewisohn again, sending him a copy of one of the documents. Then the mystery was solved: Lewisohn acknowledged that he’d made an error in his email to me – and that Bill had in fact told him his birthday was in April, not September.

The Bluesky post which stated that “Billy died on his 90^th birthday” hadn’t so far been specifically discussed in our email exchange. I emailed Lewisohn this week to confirm whether the post was inaccurate. I explained that I planned to write about the issue “as an example of the complexity of Beatles research in the digital age” and offered him the chance to comment. He responded:

“I continually have the sense that you’re trying to call me out for something. I do hope I’m wrong about that, just as I was wrong when reporting Hall’s birthdate in a social media post and repeating it in an email without rechecking the source. That’s what comes of momentarily and not properly diverting my focus from writing Volume 2 [of his Beatles biography]. I expect you’ll also have made a mistake at some point in your life.”

At the time this Substack post was published (14 January 2026), Mark Lewisohn’s Bluesky post remained online.

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Beatles history in the digital age

As Lewisohn’s response suggested, historians and researchers will always make mistakes. But the now-solved mystery of Billy Hall’s birthday highlights how easy it is for historical narratives to become distorted when they are not closely based on documents. And as errors are disseminated through different channels, they may begin to become entrenched and more difficult to challenge. As Lewisohn’s comment alluded to, such risks increase on social media, where posts are often composed quickly and may receive less rigorous verification than claims in other formats.

Mark Lewisohn doesn’t need reminding of the central importance of documents to historical research – it’s a point he’s repeatedly made himself. And in the wider scheme of things, the date of Billy Hall’s birth is a minor detail. Even so, the error here underlines how misunderstandings can enter the discourse on even the most apparently straightforward matters.

As Lewisohn pointed out to me, this mistake was thankfully not included in his Beatles biography, Tune In. But this raises a further important point. Increasingly, Beatles research is being carried out and discussed not just in the printed media, but also through faster-moving, more informal formats such as blogs and podcasts. And most researchers, including Lewisohn, are using digital platforms to engage with their audiences.

The conversational nature of these spaces is a strength. And instinctively, many would give more leeway to remarks made on a podcast or a social network than those in a book or scholarly journal. But when these comments – whether made by Lewisohn or anyone else – have a direct bearing on our understanding of the Beatles, does that still make sense?

As the influence of online platforms grows, this is a question that anyone interested in Beatles history will have to think carefully about. Some podcasts and blogs include extensive citations and explicitly consider evidential questions – exhibiting stronger scholarly rigour than many printed books. This surely points the way forward: not lowering the bar for some media, but maintaining high standards across the board. Achieving this, while maintaining the accessibility and liveliness of digital media, will support an increasingly better understanding of the Beatles’ story.

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What if John Lennon had moved to New Zealand as a child instead of becoming a Beatle? In effect, this was the question that the majority of my writing focused on in 2025.

Many influential accounts of Beatles history have included a dramatic encounter in 1946. In the seaside resort of Blackpool, it’s said that John was asked to choose between moving to New Zealand with his father, Alf, or staying in Liverpool with his mother, Julia. In some versions, the five-year-old John initially chooses to go with Alf, before at the last minute running down the street to be with Julia.

We now know that the Blackpool story is at best an exaggeration. The initial reason for my interest in it was the possibility that the events may have influenced John’s later fascination with islands and the sea. But after researching it in more detail, I was intrigued by the way it developed over decades through interactions between different sources and writers. The decisive moment came when a retired businessman in New Zealand read a book review, and decided it was time to break decades of silence.

This post traces the rise and fall of the myth – and how our understanding of it continues to evolve.

1. Alf Lennon’s claims

The initial Blackpool story came from John Lennon’s father Alf, who in 1968 told Beatles biographer Hunter Davies that John “had to decide whether to stay with me or go with her”.

A more detailed version appears in a 1990 book – authored by Alf’s second wife Pauline, but “largely based on” his unpublished autobiography. The book, Daddy Come Home, claims that the plan was for John to first travel to New Zealand with the parents of Billy Hall – Alf’s friend from the merchant navy, who he and John were staying with in Blackpool. Alf and Billy would then join them there later, by working a passage to the antipodes and then ‘jumping ship’ – a common practice at the time.

Alf’s basic claim about the choice that faced his son was repeated in books by people close to John: his first wife Cynthia, and his former personal assistant Fred Seaman. But as far as I know, John never commented directly on it himself. This, as well as general scepticism about Alf Lennon’s reliability, mean some doubts have always remained about what actually happened.

2. The Norman biography

Due to its appearance in Hunter Davies’ authorised biography, many were familiar with the basic Blackpool story; the more elaborate version involving the Hall parents was less well-known. This changed with in 2008, with a new biography of John Lennon by Philip Norman.

Based on Alf’s account, Norman wrote that – after returning from a voyage in 1946 amid the uncertainty over John’s care – he “decided he had no alternative to abduct his son”. Alf paid a visit to the house of John’s aunt Mimi (where John was staying). Under the pretences of making a day trip, he then left with his son to Blackpool, where he “hid out” at the Halls’ house for about three weeks.

Alf initially planned for John to stay with the Halls when he returned to sea. But after learning that they planned to emigrate to New Zealand, “a more complex scheme took shape”:

“Mr and Mrs Hall would take John with them, posing as his grandparents; a little later, Alf, Billy Hall, and Billy’s brother would obtain their own passage to New Zealand free of charge by signing on to some Australasian-bound liner, then jumping ship when it reached Wellington.”

3. ‘Kidnapping’ story and Billy Hall’s intervention

The dramatic account in Norman’s book was highlighted in a review the same year by a New Zealand journalist, Steve Braunias. Based on the book’s claims, Braunias envisioned a world where rather than becoming a Beatle, Lennon had ended up as an ageing suburban Kiwi – “a thin-haired, short-sighted old duffer issuing flat New Zild vowels through his snoot”.

Again based on the book, the article said John’s “dad Alf kidnapped him, and took him to Blackpool, where friends – the Hall family – prepared to emigrate to New Zealand”. (See here for the text of the article, originally published in November 2008: John Lennon, almost a Kiwi.)

One person that Braunias’ review reached was Billy Hall – who, unlike his friend Alf Lennon, did actually move to New Zealand in the 1940s. Reading about the alleged plan to abduct John, he wanted to correct the record. Braunias recalled to me that Billy’s wife got touch with him after the review was published, saying “I think you need to speak to my husband”.

Braunias interviewed Billy (by then known as Bill) Hall, who after emigrating had become a successful businessman. In an interview published in the Sunday Star-Times newspaper on 8 March 2009, Hall described Norman’s account of the Blackpool events as “bullshit”.

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4. Tune In

The renowned Beatles biographer Mark Lewisohn told me his account of what happened next. He said he’d been trying to find Hall for years, focusing his efforts on New Zealand - but had given up. Then after the interview with Bill Hall was published, he was alerted to it by another researcher1. Lewisohn contacted the publication, and conversed with Braunias, who “kindly paved the way” for him to speak to Hall.

Lewisohn then interviewed Bill Hall, in two long phone conversations, on 6 April 2009. Bill’s comments on the Blackpool events are included in Tune In (2013) – the first of Lewisohn’s planned three-volume Beatles biography. Hall told Lewisohn that there was “definitely no tug-of-love scene”, and “no truth at all” in the supposed plan that John would emigrate with Bill’s parents:

“I said I would go to New Zealand, and Lennie (Alf] said he might too, and also another mate of ours, and it some point it was mentioned that it would be a great place to raise Johnny – but no plans were ever made. Not only were my parents not planning to go, they didn’t even know I was.”

5. Untangling Alf Lennon’s yarns

The account of the events in Lewisohn’s book adds further important information to the story. But after reading this and other accounts, I still had some questions. Although Bill Hall categorically denied the claim about his parents planning to take John to New Zealand, it still wasn’t clear what exactly did happen. By his own admission, Bill wasn’t in the room where the key conversation between Alf and Julia took place, and there seemed to be some inconsistencies in his account, as well as Alf’s.

By looking at ships’ records in the National Archives (which as far as I know, Lewisohn didn’t consult for Tune In), I was able to establish more certainty about what Alf Lennon did during the war, how he and Bill met, and when Bill emigrated. The records indicated that Bill was a considerably more reliable source than Alf, who seemed to have simply invented parts of his story. But they also left open the possibility that Alf may have considered following Bill to New Zealand.

Historiographical complexity

The chronology above highlights how Bill Hall’s testimony was crucial to correcting an inaccurate narrative – but it’s also crucial to understand that he wasn’t a passive source, waiting to be discovered. Prompted by the account in Norman’s book, he actively chose to contact Braunias so he could tell his side of the story. Braunias’ interview with Hall was published in March 2009. Following this, Braunias facilitated an introduction between Lewisohn and Hall - who Lewisohn interviewed in April 2009.

On BlueSky in April 2025, Lewisohn wrote that he “found Billy in 2009… And I got to the truth just in time”. But as he’s since confirmed, this isn’t the whole story - and the full context matters for how we interpret Hall’s testimony.

I agree with the Beatles historiographer Erin Torkelson Weber that on this issue, Alf Lennon had a more obvious agenda than Bill Hall2. But Bill did have an agenda: to clear his and his family’s name from the alleged plan to abduct John. So in my opinion, I don’t think it’s necessarily true that (in Lewisohn’s words in Tune In) Hall “relate[s] the events impartially” – and this definitely shouldn’t be assumed.

One area, for instance, where I have some questions about Bill’s account is in his reported claim to Braunias that his parents “never had any idea of coming to New Zealand”. This contradicts what Bill Hall’s children told me: that Bill’s parents did move to New Zealand – years after he did, but certainly before he spoke to Braunias. In his enthusiasm to challenge Norman’s “bullshit”, perhaps Bill Hall was selective in the truth he told.

See the links below for more detail on the Blackpool events and Lennon’s interest in islands. And subscribe to Follow the Sun to receive articles in 2026 on Magic Alex, the Beatles’ visit to Greece and more.

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Several images in this post are from Pathé Pictorial Goes to the Seaside: Blackpool (1947)

First it was given names that didn’t exist… then it disappeared completely. Welcome to the latest twist in the story of the Greek island that the Beatles wanted to buy in 1967.

The updated Beatles Anthology documentary series, released for streaming last week, contains a number of differences from the original nineties version. As well as sharper pictures and sound, some content has changed substantially. Because of the shorter episodes compared to the 1996 release, some parts have had to be cut. But it isn’t just about length – some material has also been added, presumably reflecting different editorial priorities.

Some Beatles fans have lamented notable material that’s no longer there, such as Paul’s comment in episode one that, since John’s mother played a ukulele, “to this day, if I ever meet grown-ups… who play ukuleles I love ‘em”. Others believe that the documentary now feels fresher, reflecting new audiences, needs and attitudes thirty years on.

Greek island plans

Whatever your view, one part that has changed significantly is the section about the Beatles wanting to buy a Greek island in July 1967 – during the so-called ‘summer of love’. The 2003 DVD (essentially the same as the 1996 version) includes a two-and-a-half-minute montage of clips of the group and their companions in Greece, as well as comments from George and Ringo on the events. This is an important source for our knowledge – not least because it includes images of a specific island, that I identified as Monolia in the Lichadonisia cluster.

The new version is significantly shorter (lasting only about thirty seconds), while also containing new material. Interestingly, there’s no specific mention of the Greek island idea at all. Instead, shots of the trip to Greece are shown during the part when the Beatles comment on the summer of love in general.

The clips of Greece are still soundtracked by the song Baby, You’re a Rich Man. But there are no longer any images of the island that appears to be Monolia – and Magic Alex is also notable by his absence (he does appear in a later episode). What does survive of the Greece footage is much clearer, and there’s some new material (as well as a shot of George making a colourful crayon doodle on the deck of a yacht, there’s now also one of his wife Pattie doing the same). But if you just saw this version, it wouldn’t be clear that the images shown were from Greece, or that the group had wanted to buy an island there.

Summer of love

However, there is more material about the summer of love itself – and a stronger suggestion of how the optimistic mood at this time influenced the Beatles’ island plans. As the shots of Greece are shown, George comments:

“The love generation, or whatever you want to call it, they had this kind of thing about how everybody was going to change the world. Everybody was on such a buzz. You know, I don’t mean just the Beatles, but the whole kind of planet was – at least San Francisco, LA and London was.”

This new addition significantly expands on Harrison’s existing comments (included both versions): “I mean, you know that ‘summer of love’, a lot of that was bullshit really. It was all what the press were saying. But there was definitely… a vibe”.

Acid was a big part of that vibe; but the weather also played its part. This is made clear in a small other addition that’s now included at the start of a comment from Paul: “It always seemed to be sunny – you wore these far-out clothes and these far-out little sunglasses.” Again, this expands on his already-included observation that “‘summer of love’ is a little bit too sort of easy, but yeah [it was] some sort of golden summer’”. And it underlines how it wasn’t coincidental that the Beatles ‘followed the sun’ to Greece: a deeper connection to nature and the universe was part of the whole vibe.

The updated footage of young people dancing now comes across as more colourful and joyful. Together, these changes help us better understand the time that the events took place. It’s now easy to assume that the Beatles were never serious about living together on a Greek island – but we have to consider the historical context, when utopian ideas seemed much more feasible. While the group would soon become disillusioned with the hippie dream, that hadn’t yet happened when they went to Greece.

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Controversial associations

I’d like to think that wanting to emphasise this context, together with the need to reduce the run time, led to the more specific material about the Greek island being cut. A suspicious viewer, though, might also wonder whether any powers at Apple and/or Disney wanted to minimise controversy: in particular (and as I’ve previously discussed in the Journal of Beatles Studies), the possibility that the Beatles’ visit to Greece was used as propaganda by the country’s then military government.

In any case, if the attempt to buy a Greek island was seen as a largely irrelevant part of the Beatles’ story that could happily go, I disagree. Not only is this section an entertaining part of the original documentary. The events capture the group at a significant point in time, and give important indications about how they were thinking and feeling.

I find it surprising that the island idea isn’t even mentioned in the updated version. And if the new documentary was the only one we had, our knowledge of the events would be significantly poorer. The good news is that as that since we still have the old one, there’s now more information overall. It also follows that there must be still more relevant material in the vaults – particularly since in his live performances, Paul has shown an additional second or so of footage that significantly adds to the picture - appearing to show George on Monolia.

This makes me wonder: what else is there that we haven’t seen? With their ongoing output of new remasters and outtakes, some are starting to accuse Apple of scraping the barrel of Beatles content. But this is not a view that I’ll take while some Greek island footage still remains under wraps. Until it surfaces, we’ll have to keep asking, as John Lennon does in the song that backs this section: “And have you travelled very far? … What did you see when you were there?”

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The Beatles’ producer George Martin played an essential role in realising their creative visions. By 1968, however, the group were increasingly confident in the studio, and didn’t need him as much. In September that year, while the four were recording material for what would become the ‘White Album’, Martin even went on holiday to Italy – leaving any necessary tasks to his assistant.

Martin didn’t forget about the band, of course. While away, he sent them a postcard depicting some of the Aeolian Islands off the coast of Sicily – and what he wrote on it is intriguing:

“I have found the perfect island for a recording studio,” Martin began. “Only hang up is there is no electricity. Still, I’m told cassette recording is the coming thing.”

The reference to an island studio is clearly light-hearted – but it’s fascinating even so. Because one of the reasons given for the Beatles wanting to buy a Greek island the previous year was to make music and have a recording studio there. George Martin had no known involvement in the Greek island discussions – which makes sense, since he was not a fan of Magic Alex. But why was the idea of an island studio on his mind? If the comment came completely out of the blue, it would seem odd. It suggests he and the group had already discussed the topic – perhaps in relation to their Greek dream from the previous year.

Adding further interest to Martin’s observation, about a decade later he did set up a recording studio on an island – for his company Associated Independent Recording (AIR), on Montserrat in the Caribbean. AIR Montserrat opened in 1979, later hosting artists such as the Rolling Stones, Elton John and Paul McCartney. “The studio and its surroundings were gorgeous,” recalled sound engineer Geoff Emerick, who helped create it. “There was a huge picture window in the control room overlooking the bay; you could literally sit at the console and watch the sunset at the same time.”1

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The project was audacious – but in his autobiography, Martin says the idea of a “total environment studio” had always appealed to him. He’d previously considered creating one on a ship to give groups “their get-away-from-it-all feeling”. After a two-year search, the choice was narrowed down to a 120-ft yacht in Malta and a 160-ft passenger ferry offered by the Yugoslav government. Despite its challenges, Martin claims the idea was only abandoned due to the 1970s economic crisis.

Hawaii, Canada and Mexico were tempting locations for a land-based facility, adds Martin. While he’d always liked the Caribbean, he was put off by the political instability – until discovering peaceful Montserrat, where he was able to create his “ideal working place”. “Despite the fact that constructing a state-of-the-art studio in such a remote area was an almost impossible task,” said Emerick, “we pulled it off.”

Sadly, the Montserrat studio was abandoned in 1989 after a hurricane ravaged the island. While the building escaped fairly lightly, Martin later commented that changes in the music business combined with the hurricane’s impact meant it was time to close the facility. What remains of it now sits on the edge of an exclusion zone for a nearby volcano, which erupted in 1995.

This creates another point of comparison with Martin’s earlier postcard, whose image includes the volcanic island of Stromboli. What’s more, the Lichadonisia islands – the place in Greece that the Beatles most likely wanted – are also said to have been created by a volcano. These similarities are surely all coincidental. The common thread is the romantic appeal of an island getaway for creating music undisturbed. This vision clearly appealed to Martin. It also appealed to the Beatles in 1967 – and the fact that Martin referenced the idea on his postcard suggests that the group and their producer might have previously discussed this concept.

There are now a number of recording studios on islands, but when Martin created AIR Montserrat, it seems to have been the first such project. When the Beatles dreamed of having one in Greece, it was an even more outlandish notion. In their attempts to realise this ambition, then, the musicians and their producer were once again ahead of their time.

Note: George Martin’s postcard is included as supplementary material in ‘Recording the Beatles’ by Kevin Ryan and Brian Kehew (2006), which is an excellent detailed guide to the technical aspects of the Beatles’ recording sessions as well as the surrounding context. It draws on interviews with many people that worked with the group. Thanks to Professor Jan Hemming at the University of Kassell for highlighting the postcard to me.

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Update (February 2026):

I recently got back from Greece, where I spoke to several people that knew Alexis Mardas - the friend of the Beatles who helped facilitate their trip to the country in 1967 and plans to buy an island there. My trip included visiting Hydra - the Greek island where in his post-Beatles years Mardas owned a home and spent much of his time.

‘Magic Alex’ was an enigmatic person, but these conversations helped me learn a lot more about his fascinating story, and I’ll be writing more soon about what I discovered.

In the meantime, I’m re-sharing a post I previously wrote discussing some of my earlier research about Mardas: including his roots in what is now Bulgaria, his illustrious family history and his influential connections. Read on to learn more about the mysterious Magic Alex - or click the three links below for other articles I’ve written about him.

More about Magic Alex:

Actor, architect, soldier…spy? The intriguing inner circle of Alexis Mardas

Alexis Mardas was integral to the Beatles’ plans to buy a Greek island – though not much is known about him. According to various accounts, Mardas spoke of having high-level connections in Greece that could help him find a suitable spot for the group. Specific claims he is said to have made include that his father was a high-up member of Greece’s secret police1, and that his family’s social circles included Prince Philip2. Mardas had a well-attested tendency for exaggeration, meaning that it can be hard to discern fact from possible fantasy in such reports. However, his apparent claims appear to have at least some basis in reality.

I’ve tried to find out more about Mardas’ background from various sources – and what I’ve learned points to a fascinating picture. Like many Greeks, both Alexis’ immediate family and the wider Mardas family have roots in the part of the world that is now Bulgaria, Turkey and the Black Sea coast – and moved to Greece itself in the early twentieth century. I was told that some parts of this wider family – which also happens to include a pioneer of Greek cinema – historically had significant wealth. Whether or not this was true of Alexis’ immediate family, by the late 1960s he was developing influential connections within Greek society, including a globally prominent architect and planner. Such relationships in turn seem to have helped him later build growing links within international royal circles. It also appears plausible that Alexis’ father did indeed have some connection to the colonels’ military government – possibly including work for a state intelligence service. But how or whether such relationships might have supported Magic Alex’s quest to find a Greek island for the Beatles remains unclear.

Alexis’ father: soldier or ‘shady businessman’?

Various media reports offer a glimpse of who Alexis Mardas was. Certainly by the late 1970s – long after he had parted ways with the Beatles – he does appear to have had extensive international royal connections. A Sunday Times article in 19783 reported that the Sultan of Oman had returned three bullet-proof Mercedes cars to Night Vision Systems, a security company run by Mardas, due to their unsatisfactory performance. According to this article, Mardas counted the kings of Jordan, Spain, and Morocco, as well as the Shah of Iran, among his other customers and described himself as a close friend of the ex-King Constantine of Greece. And the 1979 New Statesman article (by the same author, Duncan Campbell)4 says that Constantine, then living in London, had “spent not a little of his time fixing up contacts and contracts for Mardas”, including among various other royal families around the world.

Reports of his earlier activities contain less detail – though Mardas did sometimes speak to the media about his life. In 1968 he met a reporter from the Daily Mail5 who profiled Mardas and his inventions, saying:

“Inventor John Alexis Mardas came to Britain on a tour two years ago while studying chemistry and electronics. He thought of staying for a few days because it sounded a nice country after he once talked to Prince Philip and Lord Snowdon6 in Greece. But he stayed on, married a Greek girl here this year, and intends to become a British citizen.”

In 1995, he was interviewed by Stavroula Panagiotaki from the Greek magazine Gynaika, who later recalled a “peaceful man, incredibly kind with a terribly soft voice”. Her article briefly mentions Mardas’ background, saying that he was born in Athens, “the son of a soldier from Eastern Rumelia”. The military reference aligns with other mentions of Mardas’ father – the Daily Mail article, for example, described Alexis as the “son of a Greek ex-general”. The New Statesman article mentioned above refers to a different kind of work for the state, saying Alexis’ father was “a major in the Greek secret police”.

Within Alexis’ extended family, there is a somewhat different impression again. Last year I spoke to Argyris Mardas, an entrepreneur and author who describes himself as a distant cousin of Alexis, “two or three generations” away from a common ancestor. He never met Alexis, but has spoken to people that did. Argyris told me that as far as he knew, Alexis’ father was not a general, though he believed it was possible he had military experience of some kind. More significant, in his view, was Mardas senior’s work as a businessman. Indeed, he described Alexis’ father as a “shady businessman” who was “very close to the [colonels’] government” and involved in “a lot of work that [would now be seen as] questionable”.

“A lot of his business was with the government,” he said. “But I don't think that he worked inside the government…He didn’t have a good name.” Argyris had also heard that Alexis’ father had a connection to Constantine, the King of Greece7 - but he didn’t know any details about this.

Argyris didn’t claim to have direct knowledge of these matters and was only passing on what he had heard. Family stories can of course become distorted over distance and time - and in this case, the apparent contradictions with other accounts seem to deepen the mystery further. But from the references above and others, some consistent themes do emerge with regard to Alexis Mardas’ father: some kind of association with the military, and a sense of secretive activity. I suggest one possible explanation for this further below.

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Roots in Bulgaria and Istanbul

There is more certainty about the geographical origins of the wider Mardas family – which the Gynaika article hints at through its reference to “Eastern Rumelia”. This was once a province in the Ottoman Empire with a substantial Greek population. By the 20th century it had effectively become part of Bulgaria. According to Argyris, the wider Mardas family has its origins in and around this part of the world. His own grandfather, he says, was born in Eastern Rumelia around 1910. Some time later – about 20 years, he thinks – the family moved to Constantinople (as Istanbul was then known), and later still to Greece itself.

This journey is in keeping with wider historical trends. In the early twentieth century, there was widespread migration among ethnic Greeks during territorial upheavals that included the first world war and its aftermath. In Bulgaria, growing nationalist tensions led to a violent anti-Greek movement breaking out in 1906. Many Greeks left the country in the ensuing years, with some going directly to Greece itself and others joining Greek communities in other places. This formed part of tensions in the wider region that led to an influx of refugees into Greece from what is now Turkey, as well as Thrace (including Eastern Rumelia) and the Black Sea coast. Overall, by the early 1920s, these refugees comprised about 25% of Greece’s population. This was the turbulent context in which many members of the Mardas family eventually settled in Greece.

In Constantinople, where Argyris’ grandfather lived for a while, there was historically a large Greek community. One notable member of the wider Mardas family, Argyris told me, was born in the city in 1875: the actor and director Achilleas Madras, whose original surname was Mardas. Madras is now seen as a pioneer of Greek cinema for cult films such as the Wizard of Athens (1931). According to reports, he studied in Paris, where he worked with the legendary French actress Sarah Bernhardt. He travelled widely for his work, including spending some time in Athens. And he was married to his co-star in the Wizard of Athens, Frida Pupelina.

Achilleas “was [from] a very wealthy family”, said Argyris. “He fell in love with an actress. And he wanted to marry her. But the family said no.” According to Argyris, it was in retaliation for this disapproval that Madras changed his surname.

The journey followed by Argyris’ grandfather – from Eastern Rumelia, via Istanbul, to Greece itself – was also taken by others in the extended family, said Argyris – even if this meant a drop in prosperity for some. Some parts of this wider family were wealthy and “had properties in Istanbul”, said Argyris. “But when they came to Greece, they left a lot of things behind.”

Connections to wealth, power and royalty

Argyris didn’t know the specific route that Alexis’ immediate family took to Greece. But whatever his family’s social status, by some means Alexis Mardas – who was born in 1942 – attended the prestigious Moraitis private school in Athens. And by the late 1960s at least, his family had some influential relationships within Greek society. One particularly significant connection was the Doxiadis family. The “Greek girl” whom the Daily Mail tells us Alexis married in 1968 was Euphrosyne Doxiadis, daughter of the renowned architect and planner Constantinos.

It would be difficult to overstate how influential Constantinos Doxiadis was at the time – not only in Greece, but globally. A New Yorker article in 1963 said that he was probably, "in terms of the number of human dwellings involved, the greatest city planner now at work in the world", impacting the lives of an estimated 10 million people. In the 1950s and 1960s, his firm Doxiadis Associates grew from its base in Athens to have offices on five continents. The company’s work “involved the planning of whole new cities and the rearrangement of whole regions,” said the article. Major projects included designing a new capital city – Islamabad – for Pakistan, overseeing Iraq's national housing programme, and a large urban renewal plan in Philadelphia.

Doxiadis was also a significant figure in global politics following the second world war. During Greece’s wartime occupation, while working in a government job he also led an underground unit that gathered military information to support resistance efforts. (After the war, this work was recognised through an honorary OBE from Britain.) And Doxiadis was central to post-war reconstruction efforts. From 1948 until 1951 he co-ordinated US investment in Greece under the Marshall Plan, as the minister overseeing Greece's post-war recovery. This made him an important point of contact in foreign policy circles, and of interest to international journalists and politicians.

After setting up his firm in the 1950s, Doxiadis deepened his influence through the Delos Symposium, an annual cruise through the Greek islands he hosted annually from 1963, which brought together intellectual and political luminaries from across the world. Prominent guests included the architect Buckminster Fuller, the philosopher Marshall McLuhan, and the anthropologist Margaret Mead.

Other members of the Doxiadis family were well-connected in their own right: Constantinos’ father Apostolos, a doctor, was a minister in the Greek government, while his brother Thomas was a doctor to the Greek royal family.

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Alexis’ father: another Argyris Mardas

But how well did Alexis Mardas know this illustrious family? We know that after marrying Euphrosyne he had professional contact with Doxiadis’ firm. In 1968-69, when Mardas was a director at the Beatles' company Apple, he and others corresponded with staff at Doxiadis Associates to discuss possible record publishing and distribution. And a photograph of a group of people including Alexis Mardas and Constantinos Doxiadis was taken in Athens in October that year.

Records of these interactions are held in Doxiadis’ personal archive in Athens. Interestingly, the archive also holds a file of correspondence between Constantinos Doxiadis and someone called Argyris Mardas when Doxiadis was living in Australia in the early 1950s: the letters discuss possible employment and travel arrangements for construction workers migrating from Greece to Australia.

This Argyris Mardas was almost certainly Alexis’ father. He has the right first name – which we are told in a Greek newspaper’s report about the Beatles’ visit to Greece. Describing Ringo Starr’s departure for London, an article in To Vima on 26 July says: “Ringo and his office manager [Neil Aspinall] were accompanied to the airport by Mr Argyris Mardas, the father of the young man who is hosting the Beatles here.”

Backing this up, the Argyris Mardas that I spoke to – the distant cousin of Alexis – said: “Argyris is a frequent name that you find in our family. My grandfather was Argyris Mardas, his grandfather was Argyris Mardas – it’s like that.”

If the Argyris Mardas named in the 1951-52 archive correspondence was indeed Alexis’ father, it suggests that the Mardas and Doxiadis families may have known each other long before Alexis married Euphrosyne. Indeed, my understanding is that the connection goes back many decades. The two families both have roots in the same town in Eastern Rumelia – Stenimachos (now called Asenovgrad), which once had a predominantly Greek population. Apostolos Doxiadis, Constantinos’ father, was a Greek activist there8. But amid the rising nationalist tensions, the Doxiadis family moved to Athens in 1915 when Constantinos was one year old. According to the 1963 New Yorker article, Apostolos was sentenced to death in Bulgaria for his activities that year, but he escaped and later joined his family who had already fled to Greece’s capital. In 1922 he became the Greek cabinet minister for refugees.

I was told that Alexis’ father, Argyris Mardas, was also born in Stenimachos. The two families knew each other both in Stenimachos and as part of the migrant community of its former residents in Athens (I’ve seen a photograph that includes both Argyris and Constantinos when they were both children). This long-standing connection means Alexis Mardas would have known the Doxiadis family in some capacity before he came to London in the mid-sixties. This would have given him some justification to claim high-level connections, and it provides a possible route for Mardas’ reputed connection to Greek royalty. After all, Constantinos’ brother Thomas was doctor to the Greek royal family. And the 1979 New Statesman article mentioned above describes Euphrosyne Doxiadis (whom Mardas married in 1968) as a “confidante” to the Greek royals. In turn, it could be this royal connection that explains the rumours about Mardas knowing Prince Philip – who was related to the Greek royal family and born in Greece.

Greek intelligence agency

According to the 1979 New Statesman article, it was indeed Mardas’ 1968 marriage that gave him his “foothold into the royal circles”. But in summer 1967, when he was looking for an island for the Beatles, his connection to the Doxiadis family would have been significantly weaker. If Mardas’ father did indeed work for or with the Greek state at that point, that could have been a more effective source of contacts. Did he? My understanding is that Alexis’ father, Argyris, had a career in the Greek army, rising to a mid-senior rank, before later working in business – and was firmly on the right wing of politics. This military background means he may conceivably have had some connection to the colonels who took over Greece in 1967. And politically he was much closer to their views than the progressive-minded Constantinos Doxiadis was.

Though this is less certain, there could be a further connection to the Greek state. It’s been plausibly suggested to me that Alexis’ father at one point may have worked for the Kentriki Ypiresia Pliroforion (KYP) – Greece’s national intelligence agency that was founded in 1953. If true, this would make sense of the impression, that comes across in various references to Alexis Mardas’ father, of him being involved with something that was in some way military but also secret. KYP was just that: an intelligence agency with close links to the army. But whether this is actually the explanation remains unclear.

More about Magic Alex:

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Desertion, theft and a stay in hospital: Alf Lennon’s eventful war
George Harrison on Monolia?
Recap: what we’ve learned about the Beatles’ Greek island mystery

The announcement that The Beatles Anthology multimedia project is to be rebooted this autumn recently caused a considerable stir. Alongside an updated release of the TV documentary, there will be a reissue of the book (originally published in 2000) and a new audio compilation.

For me, this news recalled a puzzle that I’d come across when comparing two quotes from George Harrison about the group’s intention to buy a Greek island – one in Anthology, and another in a book published sixteen years earlier.

The Anthology book presents the Beatles “in their own words”, including extensive quotes from the group. It’s billed as being “in effect, the Beatles autobiography”, and as such, it’s an important source for anyone interested in their history.

But where do the quotes originate? Many come from the same interviews with Paul McCartney, George Harrison and Ringo Starr that were used for the TV documentary. According to the introduction to the 2000 edition, “further major interviews were conducted with Paul, George and Ringo specifically for this book”.

A close look at the section about the Greek island suggests that the Anthology book may also draw on material from other sources. This, at least, seems to be the case with a quote from Harrison on page 258 of the 2000 edition.

This quote begins very similarly to Harrison’s comments in the Anthology TV series, where he says:

“Somebody had said 'you should invest some money', and we thought, 'well let's buy an island'. We'll just go there and drop out.' We rented a boat and we drove this boat up and down the coast from Athens, looking at islands. And we came to this island that we'd arranged to go and see."

The first three sentences of Harrison’s quote in the book are very similar to those in bold above. Presumably they come from the interview for the docuseries – although the order, and some of the wording, has been changed (for example, in the book it says they “sailed” rather than “drove” the boat).

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Material from Derek Taylor’s memoir

However, the next part of the Anthology quote appears to derive from another source: Fifty Years Adrift, the memoir of the Beatles’ press officer Derek Taylor, published in 1984. Taylor’s book includes numerous direct quotes from George Harrison – including one on the Greek island plans. In the extract below, from Harrison’s quote in Anthology, the first few sentences are exactly the same as those in a George quote from Fifty Years Adrift:

“It was a great trip. John and I were on acid all the time, sitting on the front of the ship playing ukuleles. Greece was on the left; a big island on the right. The sun was shining and we sang ‘Hare Krishna’ for hours and hours. Eventually we landed on a little beach with a village, but as soon as we stepped off the boat it started pouring with rain. There were storms and lightning, and the only building on the island was a little fisherman’s cottage – so we all piled in: ‘Scuse us, squire. You don’t mind if we come and shelter in your cottage, do you?’”

Since these books were published more than fifteen years apart, the most obvious explanation for this identical content is that the Anthology quote draws on material from Taylor’s book.

The second part of the Anthology quote above is not identical to that in Fifty Years Adrift, but there is considerable overlap. The quote in Taylor’s memoir includes the phrase “eventually we landed on a little beach with a village”. It also says that after encountering thunder, lightning and pouring rain, the Beatles’ group “ran for cover into somebody’s hut and all the local fishermen were friendly and gave us glasses of wine”.

The final part of the Anthology quote also includes content that is very similar to that in Fifty Years Adrift (identical parts are in bold below):

“It was about the only time The Beatles ever made any money on a business venture. To make the purchase, we’d changed the money into international dollars or some currency. Then, when they changed the money back, the exchange rate had gone up and so we made about twenty shillings or so.”

However, in the Anthology quote, this content has been re-ordered and slightly re-worded (in the original quote, the parts about changing money and then changing it back are addressed separately – at the beginning and the end of Harrison’s quote).

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Why the details matter

In one sense, it doesn’t matter where the material for the quote in Anthology comes from. Harrison signed off on the book, so he agreed for those specific words to be attributed to him. However, if we’re trying to work out the actual history of the attempted Greek island purchase, it does help to know what the sources are.

Because while the broad outline of the quotes in Fifty Years Adrift and Anthology are similar, the differences are significant. It matters, for instance, that the quote in Taylor’s book says the group ran into “somebody’s hut” for shelter, while the Anthology quote states that the group went into a “little fisherman’s cottage”, said to be the “only building on the island”.

These distinctions might seem pedantic, but here it does make a difference whether it was a “hut” or a “cottage” that the Beatles took refuge in. On Monolia (the group’s likely target) at this time, there were ‘kiosks’ – shelters used by fishermen that that could reasonably be described as huts, but not cottages. And it’s plausible that the Beatles and their companions ran into one of these.

It also makes a difference whether there was a village on the island or just one building. In the 1960s, Monolia had several buildings, rather than only one – so it matches the former description, but not the latter. Here, the quote in Anthology not only contradicts the account in Fifty Years Adrift, but also itself – confusingly stating that the island had “a village” but also only one building.

So while the quote in Taylor’s book contains small details that help identify the likely location, the quote in Anthology includes aspects that arguably obscure it. This confusion may arise from the way the latter seems to be a composite of different sources.

The Anthology quote also includes some quotations within it: the one above beginning “Scuse us, squire” and another from Magic Alex, saying “we’ll have the military come” to carry away the big pebbles that covered the island. I don’t know what the source is for these comments – but while they add colour to the narrative, they don’t concern anything substantive about the events in question.

The quote from George Harrison in the Anthology book, then, seems to combine at least two different sources: the interview for the TV series and Derek Taylor’s memoir. And there are additional details that so far have no identified source: these must either come from parts of the filmed interview that weren’t screened, or another source (or sources). What’s more, some of the information from these seems to be contradictory.

I don’t know whether any other quotes in The Beatles Anthology blend material from several sources in this way. But it helps to realise that this may be the case – and where possible, to try and work out what these sources are.

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Desertion, theft and a stay in hospital: Alf Lennon’s eventful war
George Harrison on Monolia?
Recap: what we’ve learned about the Beatles’ Greek island mystery

In the winter of 1943, John Lennon’s father Alfred was working as a steward on the Moreton Bay – a passenger cruiser now converted for carrying troops during the war. Crossing the Atlantic back to Liverpool after a stop in New York, the ship encountered a terrifying three-day storm.

A log entry, dated 22 to 24 January, tersely notes: “Vessel in convoy in intense cyclonic disturbance, with mountainous seas.” Manoeuvring to ride out these conditions, the Moreton Bay sustained “upper structural damage”, with its lifeboats and rafts affected. The chaos may have hastened the end for one of Alf’s crewmates. At 1:30am on the third day, Albert Grant, a 28-year-old fireman with suspected meningitis, died; he was buried at sea that afternoon. His remaining personal effects included a three-piece suit, six chocolate bars and two tins of meat extract.

Grant’s fate was by no means unusual for merchant seamen, whose death rate during the second world war was higher than for those serving in the armed forces. Misfortunes experienced by others on the Moreton Bay included suffering a skin infection, having their appendix removed or losing a fingertip. But these crew members, and the rest of their colleagues on board, were all lucky: they returned home at a time when many were not. The threat from prowling German U-boats was then at its peak, with alarming numbers of merchant vessels being sunk.

The North Atlantic was particularly perilous, so Alf – now aged 30 – was probably grateful to reunite with his wife, Julia, in February. But when he got back, he found his domestic life was also undergoing upheavals. The four-year marriage had always been idiosyncratic, punctuated by Alf’s long absences at sea. Now real problems were emerging. After an argument about Julia’s new habit of visiting the pub “every evening”, Alf says she poured hot tea on him; he responded by slapping her1.

Clearly, there was a lot going on in Alf’s life. But as it turned out, all this was just the prelude to far greater disruption. He was about to embark on extraordinary series of global escapades – beginning in July 1943 and lasting well over a year, with each mishap compounding the last. Alf’s own telling of these events is barely believable. But I’ve found archive documents that reveal an even more remarkable story. Meticulously-kept logs, crew agreements and other records detail how John Lennon’s father deserted his ship in New York, was imprisoned in Algeria for stealing cargo and then – in an episode Alf didn’t mention – hospitalised in Italy with venereal disease, before returning to the UK as a ‘distressed British seaman’.

Along the way, Alf befriended Billy Hall, thereby paving the way for a later, much-discussed incident in Blackpool – where a five-year-old John Lennon was supposedly asked to choose between emigrating to the antipodes with his father, or staying in Liverpool with his mother. Below, I take a closer look at what happened – including a definite answer on whether we can believe Alf or Bill about how the latter got to New Zealand.

The details of ship movements, desertions and events on board are all confirmed in documents held in the UK National Archives. Some additional context and quotes, from Alf’s perspective, come from his quasi-autobiography Daddy, Come Home (1990)2.

Deserting ship in New York

It may have at least partially mitigated the hardships of his employment when, while serving on the Moreton Bay in May 1942, Alf Lennon had been promoted from assistant steward to saloon steward. It involved a pay rise of a pound a month: about 10%3. Alf continued in this role on the ship’s next trip, which – following the storm – returned to the UK in February 1943. Alongside its risks, that voyage epitomised the work’s adventurous glamour – having called at ports including Durban, Buenos Aires and Trinidad before reaching New York.

By July, the Allies had seen off the Atlantic U-boat menace. Alf now sailed this route in the other direction – this time as a passenger, travelling to the US in the apparent hope of a much bigger role. He claims that in a pub, a union official had told him that seamen with ratings such as his were sent to New York for jobs as chief stewards on ‘liberty ships’. (At the time, these mass-produced vessels were rapidly being built to replace the huge numbers lost.) While the new ships did urgently require staffing, chief steward was a senior post overseeing all catering crew: well above even Alf’s new level. So his supposed plan sounds rather optimistic – but it may nonetheless have been with a sense of new possibilities that he made the journey.

As it happened, Alf had to wait for weeks in New York to be assigned to a ship – long enough to find a temporary job at a department store, Macy’s. A keen singer, he also quickly found a way to express his creative side, spending his weekends entertaining other seamen in bars. He fondly recalled one particular occasion, when he performed his “Adolf Hitler act”, followed by some Broadway musical numbers and an “impromptu dance” around the room – “leaping across tables into the hairy arms of the sailors… The finale was greeted with stupendous applause and shouts of ‘Broadway for the boy’.”

Alf said this tour de force – which allegedly led to him being held aloft through the New York streets, followed by a crowd of forty to fifty revellers – “was one of the greatest thrills of his life”. But joining the crew of the Samothrace in Baltimore that September, cold reality struck. Given his recent promotion and hopes for more, it must have been a bitter blow to be employed at his former level of assistant steward. There was then more bad luck on board when Alf broke his right collar bone wrestling with a crewmate. The injury kept him off duty for more than three weeks. With his frustrations mounting, a spirit of restlessness perhaps proved overwhelming, and while at port in New York on 13 January 1944, Alf Lennon deserted the Samothrace, “taking all his gear with him”4.

Prison, then hospital

Perhaps, as Alf claimed, the ship’s captain had told him this would be the only way to register a complaint about his rating. Perhaps Alf, who as a boy had dreamed of a career on stage, even had visions of extending his run as an entertainer. According to Daddy, Come Home, Alf reported to the British consul the day after jumping ship. (His naval service file shows he was listed as “man wanted”.) In Alf’s telling, his innocent request for help led to him being detained on Ellis Island for two weeks by the immigration authorities. Whatever happened, we know for sure that on 9 February 1944, Alf joined another liberty ship, the Sammex, headed for North Africa.

Alf remained at the level of assistant steward – though that turned out to be the least of his troubles. The Sammex’s log records that about a month later, he and another crew member were found “drinking together” at 11:30am while “neglecting their duties”. A search of their cabins “revealed large quantities of beer and cigarettes which it is presumed had been extracted from the cargo”. According to the entry, Alf claimed that “similar pilfered goods” would be found in the cabins of all the vessel’s officers and of other crew members – but a search found this accusation was “unfounded”.

This contrasts markedly with Alf’s own account, in which he resisted being drawn into an on-board conspiracy to broach the ship’s cargo – but was then unfortunately caught drinking stolen beer, just after his friend had left the room. His story must have failed to convince the naval court at the next port – Bône in Algeria5, an important hub for the North Africa campaign. Here Alf Lennon, together with two others, was sentenced to imprisonment. Months after his star turn in the bars of New York, he now found himself in Bône’s military prison in conditions he would later say were “so disgusting as to be indescribable”. Despite his sentence being for two months, Alf’s service file says that he only spent a month there, for “embezzling beer and cigs”. This, though, was by no means the end of his travails.

Following his release, Alf was sent to Algiers, where he boarded the Chiswick on 27 May. After traversing the Mediterranean between Italy, North Africa and Greece, this ship would return to Birkenhead, opposite Liverpool, early the next year. But if Alf was hoping for an uneventful voyage home, this was not to be. A few days later, the vessel experienced “very severe vibrations” at sea after “seemingly [being] hit” during an enemy air attack6. Upon inspection, no serious damage was found – but the incident nonetheless highlighted the danger of the work. While the Chiswick survived this scrape, later that year Alf suffered further misfortune. On 20 September he was discharged from the ship to a hospital in Taranto, Italy with “V.D.” – venereal disease, or what would now be called an STI.

The condition was not unusual among sailors (the Chiswick’s log records three other crew members hospitalised with VD on the same trip). But in Alf’s case, this information calls into question statements he made about his marriage. With the infection emerging 14 months after he was last in Liverpool, it appears to contradict the claim of Alf’s “unerring faithfulness”, which is made in Daddy, Come Home to contrast with the actions of Julia (by the time Alf returned, she was pregnant by another man)7. Ultimately, it’s impossible to know in what circumstances Alf acquired VD. But if he hadn’t, any conversation about whether he or his son might move to New Zealand would, perhaps, never have happened.

Within a few weeks, Alf was out of hospital and in Naples. It was here, on the 11 October, that he was one of more than 50 “distressed British seamen” collected by the Monarch of Bermuda for repatriation to the UK. Working as a bedroom steward on the same vessel was 21-year-old William Hall of 37 Ivy Avenue, Blackpool. Despite Alf’s claims that they met in Algeria, it was presumably on this voyage, then – in the 12 days between Alf boarding and the ship getting back to Liverpool – that Alf and Billy became friends.

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High jinks in Australia and New Zealand

Returning home after the trip – the Monarch of Bermuda docked in October 1944 – any relief Alf might have felt was quickly tempered with the surprise of Julia’s pregnancy (the father was a Welsh soldier named Taffy Williams8). This shock news came just as hope was resurgent in wartime Britain. Following the success of D-Day, the Allies were advancing in Europe on two fronts, and thoughts were turning to what would happen after a victory that seemed increasingly likely. It was amid growing national optimism, as well as personal uncertainty, then, that Alf would reunite with Bill Hall for their next voyage – on the Dominion Monarch, flagship of the Shaw Savill Line. The trip included locations with a special appeal to each of them: for the former, New York and for the latter, New Zealand.

In November, Billy boarded the ship in Liverpool as assistant steward, travelling to New York and back before Alf joined the crew on 28 December (in the same role as Bill). It must have been after this date that Hall’s photograph of “five good friends” – himself, Alf, Billy’s brother John and two others – was taken9. The records confirm that all five were on board – and in further evidence of this gang’s closeness, they were often found together in the groups of crew disciplined for going absent without leave (Awol).

On 2 March 1945, for instance, while the Dominion Monarch was docked at Sydney, Bill, Alf and John Hardacre (another of the five friends) were all among a group of eight crew fined and forfeited wages for being Awol. The following week, in Wellington, Alf and Bill were penalised once more for the same reason. And at the end of that month, at Balboa in Panama, Alf – together with John Hall and Frank Leedale, the fifth friend – was again disciplined. These records chime with the recollections of Bill Hall, who said in reference to Alf: “He was a pisshead. We all were.”10

The evidence we have, then, suggests a compelling picture. The end of the war was increasingly in sight – and after many tough years at sea, discipline was flagging. Finding themselves in exotic locations among agreeable company, it seems that the temptation to indulge in high jinks was irresistible. For Alf in particular, the trip was probably a welcome relief after his various ordeals. Bill had already been to New Zealand twice, and loved it. It may well have been on this third visit that he began to seriously consider moving to the country – and possibly suggested that his friend do the same. After a brief stop in New York, the Dominion Monarch returned to Liverpool. Alf and Bill disembarked on 20 April 1945, less than three weeks before VE Day.

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The Blackpool conversation

After the voyage, the five friends went on leave to Blackpool: photographs show members of the group – sometimes alongside Hall’s parents and others – relaxing, drinking and larking around (in one, taken “after a session” at a local pub, Bill leans jokingly over Alf wielding a hammer). After this, though, Alf and Bill appear to have gone their separate ways until the former returned with his son the following year. Alf worked three more trips on the Dominion Monarch, before joining the Queen Mary for a short engagement – employed as a night steward from to 13 April to 1 May 1946. Meanwhile, Bill served on the Île de France, followed by two voyages on another impressive ocean liner, the Queen Elizabeth. His strong record of service is reflected in the award of a campaign medal, the 1939-1943 Star. But after the war, Hall’s service file shows that his engagements abruptly ended. In October 1945, he “failed to report from leave”, and worked on no more ships until being released from the Merchant Navy almost a year later “on termination of war service”.

Meanwhile, the young John Lennon’s domestic situation was becoming increasingly fraught. His mother, Julia, had given birth the previous June, with the baby adopted. Soon afterwards, she found a new partner, Bobby Dykins. During these events, John’s aunt Mimi had spent plenty of time looking after him at her house. But in spring 1946, Julia and Dykins moved into a tiny one-bedroom flat, taking John with them. Soon afterwards, apparently with the support of Liverpool City Council, Mimi had removed John – citing concerns about him sharing a bed with his mother and Dykins – to go and live with her11.

Upon his return to Liverpool in May, Alf apparently felt the need to intervene in this situation. The next month, he visited Mimi’s house and departed the following day with John. Alf says he told Mimi he was taking his son “shopping or to see his Granny”. In fact, the two went to stay with Billy Hall in Blackpool.

This was where the conversations about John’s future took place. While we may never know for sure what was said, the evidence above suggests that Bill Hall is a far more reliable source than Alf Lennon – whose account differs widely from what the documents reveal. This becomes even clearer when we compare the archive records to Alf and Bill’s differing stories of how Hall left the UK.

According to the testimonies of Hall and his family, he jumped ship in 1947 from the Arawa, with his parents following years later. Alf, however, told a very different story. In his version, the Hall parents emigrated first – then Bill deserted the Dominion Monarch some time after summer 1948, while Alf was also on board. Alf claimed he planned to follow suit – only changing his mind at the last minute in Wellington in 1949.

Here, the archives are unambiguous on who we can trust. Bill’s service record shows that he rejoined the merchant navy on 7 March 1947. He boarded the Arawa as an assistant steward the next week, then went Awol on 11 June while the ship was docked in Wellington. When Hall failed to materialise for the return voyage two days later, the ship’s log confirms that he was written off as a deserter. Highlighting the popularity of such a move at this time, the records show that ten other men jumped ship during the Arawa’s three and a half week stay in the New Zealand capital.

Clarifying the story

So Bill’s recollections largely match the documents – but what about Alf’s? Ships’ records do confirm his account that following the events in Blackpool, he departed for long spells on the Almanzora and then the Andes. These were followed by three successive voyages on the Dominion Monarch in 1948 and 1949 – all of which called at New Zealand12. Similarly, Alf recalled trips on this ship in these years. Indeed it was during one such voyage – sitting in a pub in Auckland on a “beautiful spring-like Sunday in October 1949” – that he says he was intending to jump ship the next day – until a crewmate asked him: “You’ve a son in Liverpool, don’t you Freddie? Won’t you miss him?”.

The log for Alf’s last trip leaves open the possibility that he may indeed have been on the cusp of moving to New Zealand. The Dominion Monarch, with Alf Lennon on board, called at Wellington on 14 October 1949, staying for almost a month. On the day of its departure – 12 November – Alf was one of ten crew members fined for having gone Awol. The same day, the log noted that nine other seamen had deserted. But if Alf had considered joining the latter group, it was his last chance. The next month he returned to London, and would never work on a ship again.

The records, then, are largely compatible with Alf’s description of his last-minute change of heart. But deciding how much trust to place in his tales is a complex matter. For someone evidently comfortable with stretching the truth, many of the details he provides are surprisingly accurate. Then again, some of his most significant claims are way off the mark. These include his story that Billy Hall deserted the Dominion Monarch, which must simply be an invention. Bill didn’t work on that ship after 1945 – and records clearly show he fled the Arawa in 1947, before the Dominion Monarch had even resumed service after the war.

Ultimately, though, the documentation of Alf and Bill’s time at sea doesn’t just help clarify the facts. It also supports a deeper understanding of the situation that came to a head in Blackpool. Clearly, the idea of moving to New Zealand wasn’t just a passing thought. As the chart below indicates, huge numbers of merchant seamen deserted their ships to live in the country after the war. Bill Hall was one of them, and Alf Lennon may have seriously considered joining him there. He had visited the country numerous times, and his marriage had broken down. The problem with Alf’s account is not the impracticality of him emigrating, but of taking his son with him.

Post-war deserters at New Zealand ports

I’ve come to realise that this subject is also far more relevant than it first seemed to my research about the Beatles in Greece. Alf’s story gives us a valuable new perspective on the personality of John Lennon, the chief proponent of the group’s plans to buy a Greek island. Curiosity about his father’s wartime escapades may help explain why John developed a growing interest in sailing and the sea, for instance. It could also have contributed to the Beatle becoming (in Paul McCartney’s words) “a world war two buff” with a “complete set” of Winston Churchill’s works13.

What’s more, there are some fascinating parallels between Alf’s and John’s lives. Almost two decades after Alf wowed the New York crowds with his Hitler impression, his son’s band came of age in another foreign port, Hamburg – once again, entertaining off-duty sailors with off-the-wall antics. Alf, who visited New York many times, suggested that in different circumstances he would have liked to live permanently in the city – something John did of course do (as well as following in Alf’s footsteps to Wellington and Auckland, on tour with the Beatles in 1964).

Getting a better grasp of Alf’s character may also help us appreciate why John was drawn to certain people. The evidence reveals his father as roguish, talented, and unpredictable; an engaging companion, though an ultimately unreliable one; an entertaining storyteller who blended elements of the truth with wild distortions. And controversy seemed to follow him wherever he went. Does that remind you of anyone else? Substitute the Scouse accent for a Greek one, and it seems to me those words could just as easily be describing Magic Alex.

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Update - read my research on Alfred Lennon’s wartime experiences:

At lunchtime on 23 February, 1941, the Tongariro cargo ship pulled into Auckland harbour amid summer breezes. For Billy Hall, a seventeen-year-old steward’s boy on board, the trip was only his second time at sea. The first, the previous year, had been a brutal introduction to the perils of the ocean – getting shipwrecked off the coast of Scotland. Alongside such natural dangers, as a merchant seaman in the second world war, Billy faced the constant risk of enemy attacks. Against this backdrop of hardships, the allure of the antipodes made a huge impression on him – a striking change from his home town of Blackpool. Billy visited New Zealand three times during the war. While his ships were docked, he might spend all day with crewmates in the bars of Auckland, or attend a vibrant party in a Wellington suburb. “I thought it was Godzone,” he later recalled.

As strong as Billy’s growing love for the country was his hatred of Britain’s class system. He’d seen his father queue for the dole for almost a decade: he was fired from his job in a bleach mill after injuring his arm. So after the war ended, the decision to move to New Zealand was easy. Like hundreds of others at that time, he simply got off his ship in Wellington and never got back on. Billy found real success in his new home: first as a fashion entrepreneur, then as a pioneering game fisherman. By the time he died in 2013, aged 90, he could look back on a remarkable path through life. What made it even more remarkable was that for a brief few weeks, it overlapped with that of a Beatle.

During his travels, Billy befriended another merchant navy steward: Alfred Lennon, father of the future Beatle, John. And after the war, Billy was present for a significant event in John’s childhood: one that has often been seen as “foundational”1. In Blackpool in June 1946, the five-year-old John was supposedly asked to choose between moving to New Zealand with his father or staying in Liverpool with his mother.

Beatles biographers such as Hunter Davies and Philip Norman have recounted this story, based on accounts from Alfred. For many, the heartbreaking choice has seemed to crystallise the future Beatle’s childhood trauma. (Norman wrote: “If you want to tear a small child in two, there is no better way.”2) Personally, I’ve speculated that an association in John’s mind between that parting with his father and the idea of moving to an island nation may have influenced his later psychology and fascinations.

However, in Tune In, the first part of his planned three-volume Beatles biography, Mark Lewisohn reported an account from Billy Hall, who told him that there was “no truth … at all” in key elements of the conventional story.

The revelation was seen as one of the book’s major myth-busting moments. And much of the Blackpool myth did indeed need busting. But since I began to explore this story, I’ve found there’s still more to say about it. I hadn’t realised, for instance, that Billy Hall did actually move to New Zealand. After speaking to members of Hall’s family, and researching his friendship with Alf through archive records, I’ve been able to gain a much clearer picture of other aspects of the events, too. What I’ve discovered not only allows us to better understand what happened in Blackpool, but also helps separate fact from fiction regarding Alf Lennon’s extraordinary wartime experiences – including significant new information. But first, let’s take another look at the traditional tellings of the Blackpool story.

The Blackpool story

In June 1946, John’s father Alfred (better known as Freddie or Alf) – an infrequent presence throughout John’s early years due to his work as a merchant seaman – reappeared in his life. John, then aged five, had recently gone to live with his aunt, Mimi, after his mother Julia (now separated from Alf, though still married to him) had moved in with her new partner, Bobby Dykins. Apparently concerned about John’s situation, Alf visited Mimi and took his son to visit Blackpool - a traditional seaside resort. John and Alfred stayed in the town for a few weeks with Billy Hall and his parents.

With the war now over, Billy was planning to emigrate to New Zealand – and according to the Beatles’ authorised biographer Hunter Davies3, Alf decided to join him. As these plans were supposedly being made, Julia turned up, saying that (in Alf’s words, quoted by Davies) she “wanted John back”. But, in Alf’s recollection, “I said I was now so used to John I was going to take him with me”. He even suggested that Julia come with them and “start again”. After she refused, Alf suggested they “let John decide”.

This is when the notorious incident supposedly occurred. In Alf’s words, reported by Davies:

“I shouted to John. He runs out and jumps on my knee. He clings to me, asking if she’s coming back. That’s obviously what he really wanted. I said no, he had to decide whether to stay with me or go with her. He said me. Julia asked again, but John still said me. Julia went out of the door and was about to go up the street when John ran after her. That was the last I saw of him or heard of him till I was told he’d become a Beatle.”

There are more details in Daddy, Come Home – the 1990 book by Alf’s second wife Pauline, which is “largely based on the text of Freddie Lennon’s unpublished autobiography”. Here, we’re told that the plan was first for John to move to New Zealand with Billy Hall’s parents:

“Mum and Dad are emigrating to New Zealand now that I have enough money to open a business there,” [Billy Hall] told Freddie. “They’re knocked out by your John and think it would be a good idea if they took him with them and we could join them over there as soon as they are settled.”

By this, the book explains that Alf and Billy would “take stewards’ jobs on a ship sailing to New Zealand and leave it on arrival” – a practice known as ‘jumping ship’ that was “very much in vogue at the time”.

And yet in Lewisohn’s Tune In, we are told that the story, as it had become widely told, was “fantasy”. Commenting on the supposed plan that “Billy’s parents would emigrate and take John with them, to be joined later by Alf who’d work a passage there”, Hall told Lewisohn:

“There’s no truth at all in that. I said I would go to New Zealand, and Lennie [Alf] said he might too, and also another mate of ours, and at some point it was mentioned that it would be a great place to raise Johnny [John] – but no plans were ever made. Not only were my parents not planning to go, they didn’t even know Iwas.”

That comment seems to refute Alf’s version decisively. But it’s worth looking closely at what has been disproved here and what hasn’t. Because turns out that there is more to this story than I realised.

Billy Hall’s move to New Zealand

Based on the reported quote from Billy Hall – “no plans were ever made” – I had previously assumed that no one involved in this incident had ever actually emigrated to New Zealand. In fact, Billy Hall did move there. Indeed Bill Hall, as he was later known, became a successful businessman in the country, not only founding a high-profile fashion company, but also becoming a noted figure in game fishing.

An obituary published in 2013 tells us that Bill moved to New Zealand in 1947 – where his early jobs included working in a coal mine and selling millinery. In 1961, Hall co-founded the clothing brand Society Fashions, which was influential in backing new trends and stayed in business until 2020. Following his death, Hall has been hailed as “the man who gave NZ the miniskirt”, who “had a great eye for fashion and could pick a best-seller”.

While he was discreet about his Lennon connections for much of his life, in March 2009 Hall spoke publicly about them, in a three-page interview in New Zealand’s Sunday Star-Times newspaper. As the journalist who met him, Steve Braunias, later recalled, Bill said he was struck by how “well-mannered and well-spoken” the young John Lennon was, looking as though “he’d just come out of a public school”. John “seemed much older” than his young years, said Hall, who recollected that “you could talk with him almost like an adult. He impressed me no end.”

Last year I spoke to Bill Hall’s daughter Josie, who confirmed that her father made several trips to New Zealand with the merchant navy during the war. He took a liking to the country, and decided to relocate there after the conflict ended, with “good parties” being an important motivation. Josie believes her Wigan-born father found it a refreshing change from class-bound Britain. She thinks his impression at the time was: “I've come somewhere, and I'm right round the world, and I'm enjoying this, and things are different, and it looks like fun.”

A passion for the good things in life apparently stayed with Bill. “He liked to laugh. He always drove Jaguars, and [was] always immaculately dressed,” Josie recalled. “And [he] liked to party – always heaps of parties.” Evidently, he also felt strongly about challenging the more dramatic accounts of the events in Blackpool. Even before the emphatic denial reported by Lewisohn, Hall had told Braunias that the version told by Lennon biographer Philip Norman was “bullshit”. So, what did happen?

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Bill Hall and Alf Lennon

It’s certainly true that Bill Hall and Alf Lennon were friends in the merchant navy during the war. Hall told Braunias that Alf was a “fantastic fellah” who was “fun all the way through. Life and soul. A great entertainer. He was always singing. He sang quite well, actually. A powerful voice…”.4 To Lewisohn, he added that Alf was “a rascal. An absolute character” who was “always part of the fun – and if there wasn’t any, he’d make some”. Bill’s photograph collection included one of him at sea together with Alf, Bill’s brother John, and two other friends, captioned “five good friends” (see above).

Bill’s note says the photo was taken in 1944 on a ship called the Dominion Monarch – an ocean liner that often plied the route between the UK and New Zealand, via Australia. Originally designed for carrying cargo and first-class passengers, it was (like many similar vessels) requisitioned and repurposed for transporting troops during the war. Before making the return voyage, the ship would harbour for days or weeks in Kiwi ports such as Auckland and Wellington, meaning crew members had time to see the destination – whether on permitted downtime or going absent without leave (Awol). Bill and Alf certainly seem to have taken the opportunity to unwind. Based on his interview with Hall, Lewisohn tells us of a time “in 1944 or ’45” when the two were “making whoopee around the streets of Wellington” and were reprimanded by a policeman after stealing a bicycle.

Josie says Bill had a strong personality and “really took people with him”. So it also seems possible that he and Alf discussed moving to New Zealand while their ship was docked there – and that this idea persisted in their minds until 1946 in Blackpool. Of course, during a war, no plans can be made particularly firmly. “I get the picture that it was pretty much ‘live for the moment and try and grab something’,” says Josie. “I don't think they were too organised.”

How plausible was Alf’s plan?

As we know, Bill Hall did go ahead with his dream of emigrating. And if he was able to do this by working a passage and jumping ship, then presumably it would have been possible for Alf Lennon to do the same. However, taking a five-year-old boy along would have been a completely different matter: the idea that Alf could have done this with John accompanying him is implausible. The account in Daddy, Come Home claims that the plan was for John to move to New Zealand with Bill Hall’s parents, and then for Alf and Bill to join them there later. While this seems on the face of it more believable, it also presents problems. To get to New Zealand, Bill’s parents would have needed an actual passenger ticket. That not only would have cost money – it also wouldn’t have been possible until significantly later than 1946.

The ocean liners that were stripped out to carry troops during the war didn’t immediately revert to passenger service. The Dominion Monarch, for example, didn’t resume passenger voyages from the UK to New Zealand until December 1948, following a 15-month refit. In fact, Bill Hall’s son, Peter, told me that while Bill’s parents did eventually also move to New Zealand (as did his brother John), this wasn’t until several years after Bill himself had emigrated. The existence of these practical difficulties supports Bill’s dismissals of Alf’s supposed plan to move John to New Zealand. In Josie’s view: “The part that is true is that they had discussed coming out here. The part that isn't true is that they didn't actually get together to try and abduct John and take him away.”

Bill and Alf’s accounts don’t match at all

In 2002, Bill Hall published a book, Marlin Fishing, which contains some autobiographical anecdotes. He tells us that he came to New Zealand in 1947, working as a saloon waiter on the Arawa, the “first peace-time passenger ship” to make this trip after the war. After jumping ship in Wellington, Bill then worked in the mines on the country’s west coast for six months, he writes, before later moving to Auckland. Hall also tells us he had visited the country during the war three times. That all sounds believable, and it matches with what Bill’s family and media reports say. However, there’s a real problem aligning it with the account given by Alf Lennon, which tells a very different story.

Daddy, Come Home says that following the Blackpool incident, Alf felt a “gaping emptiness”, and embarked the same month on an 18-month voyage on a ship called the Almanzora. Returning to a “bitterly cold” Christmas, Alf remained downhearted, and at the turn of the year was still hoping his old family life might one day be “restored”. He embarked on two trips on the Andes in 1948, and upon his return, learned that “Mr and Mrs Hall had already left for Auckland”. The book adds that while Bill and his brother John remained in England, “it was understood” that the two Hall sons and Alf “would join [the parents] later, once they had obtained jobs on an ‘Aussie run’”. After hearing that there had been no change in Julia’s situation, we’re told that Alf decided to “leave England for good” – joining Bill and John on the Dominion Monarch to New Zealand. According to Alf, it was not until this point that Billy jumped ship in Wellington, and “paid the penalty of six weeks’ breaking sandstone”.

The book says Bill intended to try to arrange for his brother and Alf not to have to do this, which is why they planned to wait one more trip before jumping ship. But on the next visit to New Zealand – in October 1949 – we’re told that Alf had second thoughts, and decided to try again to convince Julia to allow John to emigrate there with him. On his return to England, however, Alf ended up in London’s Wormwood Scrubs prison after a drunken pub crawl that culminated with him breaking a shop window and stealing a mannequin. As a result, it became impossible for him to be employed on a ship again. With his family and career gone, Alf by now felt there was “nothing left worth living for”. He briefly became an itinerant “gentleman of the road” before finding work as a hotel kitchen porter.

The unreliable Alf?

Taken on its own, much of the account in Daddy, Come Home sounds plausible (if perhaps somewhat embellished), and several of John Lennon’s biographers have clearly made use of it. But it certainly doesn’t match Bill Hall’s version – describing a voyage to New Zealand with Bill at a time when, according to Hall himself, he’d already living there for about a year. Alf’s quasi-autobiography wasn’t published until 1990, leaving plenty of time for aspects to become embellished. The book, however, does discuss the relevant events in some detail – claiming Alf persisted with the hope of moving with John to New Zealand as late as 1949. If his story is all an invention, it’s quite an elaborate one. And how much of its other information could we then trust?

Alf’s accounts of his travels at sea are fascinating in other ways – not least in what they suggest about his character. In claims I’ll write about in more detail in my next post, he tells us how after deserting his ship in New York, he was detained by authorities on two other occasions during an extraordinary 16-month series of mishaps – including a stay in a military prison in Algeria. In fact it was shortly after this incarceration, according to Alf, that while preparing to return to the UK he met “a friendly young steward by the name of Billy Hall … and so a long friendship began”.

The story prompts some scepticism – not least because each time he found himself behind lock and key, Alf portrays himself as an unfortunate victim rather than taking responsibility. Supporting his credibility, though, he names specific ships he travelled on, sometimes giving very specific dates – and some of these details appear to closely match those in online shipping records. And while Bill Hall’s story seems to stack up, we should remember that by the time he spoke to Braunias and Lewisohn, he was in his mid-eighties. He slipped up with the timing of the Blackpool events, telling Braunias they took place in 1945 rather than 1946. Given this, how sure can we be about the 1947 date that he recalls for his emigration?

With these complexities, a lot still remains uncertain about Alf’s wartime escapades, his friendship with Bill Hall, and the events surrounding the Blackpool conversation. Whatever happened, it seems there was little realistic possibility of the five-year-old John Lennon moving to New Zealand. On the other hand, it’s very plausible that the idea of John’s father – and possibly John himself – emigrating there was discussed. So as I’ve suggested before, the rupture with Alfred that took place then could conceivably have been associated in John’s young mind with the idea of moving to an island.

That possible connection was my initial reason for my interest in the Blackpool story. But having learned more about these events, I now wanted to resolve their puzzles. Why do Bill Hall and Alf Lennon’s accounts vary so dramatically? And if Alf was aiming to deceive, why would he provide so many bizarre details – some of which seem to be accurate?

Lewisohn notes that “Alf did spin yarns” and admits that it can be “difficult… to establish the veracity of [his] stories”5. However, after venturing deep into shipping archives, I’ve found some fascinating documentary evidence that not only removes a lot of the doubt – but also reveals significant new details. There are indeed a lot of tall stories in what Alf Lennon says – though in some ways, the truth is even stranger. I’ll write about what I discovered in my next post: subscribe below to make sure you don’t miss it.

Update - read my research on Alfred Lennon’s wartime experiences:

This Substack has its origins in my attempts to locate a Greek island that the Beatles had apparently visited and wanted to buy in 1967. When I first heard about these events in 2010, they seemed like an intriguing footnote to Beatles history, that might make an interesting article. But the apparently simple question of where this island was has evolved into something much bigger – leading me through government archives, Greek newspapers, island visits and interviews with people who worked with the group.

Since I started, I’ve found an island (in fact, a group of islands) that seems increasingly likely to be the place the Beatles wanted. But in itself, this is far from the most interesting aspect of this story. Because what initially sounded like a whimsical dream, typifying the idealism of the ‘summer of love’, turned out to have very surprising dimensions.

For one thing, it brought the Beatles – then at the height of their psychedelic phase – into the orbit of a military dictatorship that hated hippies. Exploring the political backdrop to this extraordinary juxtaposition helps shed light on the cold war tensions of the time, the impact of the Beatles on these, and attempts by politicians to harness the group’s allure. My investigations have also led me to research secret services and military societies, propaganda schemes and diplomatic dispatches. The story illuminates other lesser-known aspects of the Beatles’ story, too – such as their advisers’ strategies for taming chaotic finances, the bizarre mythologies that have developed around the group, and John Lennon’s lifelong fascination with islands and the sea.

The characters I’ve encountered include a British Member of Parliament offering PR advice to the Greek junta, and an influential lawyer – described as the “fixer for the British establishment” – who worked both with the Beatles and the UK prime minister. But above all, the events centre around Alexis Mardas – a self-styled Greek inventor who had rapidly found his way into the Beatles’ inner circle, offering his assistance through eye-catching ideas and impressive-sounding connections. This story turns on the mystery surrounding the identity of ‘Magic Alex’ as much as the island itself.

Read on to learn more – and click the links to the posts for deeper dives.

The island names that weren’t on maps

In 2010, I was researching a travel guide on the Greek island of Skiathos when I heard a local rumour that the Beatles had once wanted to buy a nearby islet. Where is 'Leslo', the Greek island the Beatles wanted to buy? sets out what I learned when I decided to look into the story more deeply. The Beatles had indeed visited Greece and wanted to buy an island there – but not much else about the events was clear.

Accounts by Beatles insiders describe the group making plans to buy a main island of around 80 acres with several smaller islands next to it, costing about £90,000. But this description was never connected to an actual location. And while the place is sometimes referred to as “Leslo”, there is no known Greek island with this name.

The mystery deepened when I found files in the UK National Archives relating to the story, including an application on behalf of the Beatles to buy the ‘property currency’ required for the planned island purchase. The description of the island in these papers is a close match for those in the books. But as I discuss in The confusing island names that aren't on any maps, the documents name the Beatles' target as “Aegos in Konstadinos” – another name that appears nowhere on maps.

With not one, but two names given for islands that apparently didn’t exist – one in an authorised biography, the other in official documents – the story was already far stranger than I had imagined.

‘Used as propaganda’

I was also realising that the political context of the island adventure made it something more complicated than the simple hippie fantasy it had initially appeared – since Greece had recently been taken over by a junta of army officers. From London's summer of love to Greece's military dictatorship explores the contrast between the Beatles' peace-and-love ideals and that repressive regime, which had banned long hair, miniskirts, and even the Beatles' own song She Loves You.

Despite this, it appears that there were at least some elements within the Greek government who supported the Beatles’ visit. Were the Beatles 'used as propaganda'? examines evidence that officials promoted the group's trip in an attempt to boost the country's flagging tourist industry.

‘Likely to attract publicity’

Equally fascinating was the way the Beatles’ plans created dilemmas for the British government. 'Likely to attract publicity': The cold war context of the Beatles' Greek island plans considers how Harold Wilson's Labour government was having to balance public outrage at the Greek junta against the political imperative to maintain relations with them. Whether the group realised it or not, this meant that the Beatles’ moves towards setting up a base in Greece constituted a notable intervention in a delicate geopolitical landscape. That in turn contributed to the complexity of the issues facing British mandarins and ministers – who in effect had the power to veto the plans.

The political relevance of high-profile visits to Greece is underlined by discussions that were happening at the time. Visits by 'British personalities': An MP's PR advice to the colonels reveals how as the Beatles’ plans were taking shape, the Labour MP Francis Noel-Baker was keen to make suggestions to the Greek junta about public relations and visits to the country by “British personalities”. As it happens, the MP shared some connections with Alexis Mardas, and owned an estate near islands the group are thought to have visited. But we can only speculate on whether his actions had any bearing on the Beatles’ Greek adventure.

One influential figure with a definite link to the events was the lawyer Arnold Goodman – “fixer for the British establishment” and a confidant to prime minister Harold Wilson. Lord Goodman: Lawyer to the Beatles - and the prime minister looks at how Goodman’s solicitors’ firm acted for the Beatles to help clear the administrative hurdles required to buy the island. This meant that as Lord Goodman was meeting fortnightly with the prime minister to discuss sensitive political issues, he or his colleagues were in effect making the case to the government to allow the Beatles to go ahead with the island plans. And all at a time when Britain’s relationship with Greece was regularly making the headlines.

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The enigmatic Alexis Mardas

But while there’s a surprising amount of politics involved, it’s still not clear exactly how it all fits together. Learning more about Alexis Mardas, the Greek electronics enthusiast who organized the Beatles' trip, should help get us closer to some answers – but everything to do with him seems shrouded in uncertainty. This is partly due to Mardas’ own unreliability: his reputation for exaggeration is well-deserved. But researching The mystery of the Beatles’ ‘personal boffin’ Magic Alex, I found his character to be more complex than it is often portrayed, with the Beatles’ accountant Stephen Maltz speaking highly of Alexis’ charm and talents.

I also found evidence that Mardas’ claims of high-level connections had some basis in reality – discussed in Actor, architect, soldier...spy? The intriguing inner circle of Alexis Mardas. Stretching back to their shared roots in what is now Bulgaria, the Mardas family had connections to that of Constantinos Doxiadis, a globally influential architect. Alexis’ marriage to Doxiadis’ daughter Euphrosyne in 1968 gave him access to Greek high society.

And what about Mardas’ claim that his father worked for Greece’s secret police? A secret service connection? Argyris Mardas, IDEA and KYP explores the possibility that the agency in question was the country’s Central Intelligence Service (KYP) – which was closely associated with the military junta. While researching the service’s history, I discovered that an officer with the same name as Alexis’ father had been an important member of IDEA, a secret right-wing military organization with close links to KYP.

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Fleshing out the story

I also unearthed some contemporary accounts that flesh out our knowledge of what the Beatles did in Greece. Day trippers: a rooftop gig in a Greek mountain village looks at Greek newspaper coverage of a day trip that was arranged for the Beatles before their island cruise departed. The group danced on a rooftop to traditional music, paddled in the sea, received an array of gifts and then had a visit to an ancient amphitheatre curtailed by unexpected crowds. Meanwhile, Where the Beatles went on their Greek cruise uses reports from the newspaper To Vima to trace the detailed movements of the group’s party around the islands.

Further evidence comes from a later account by Labis Tsirigotakis, the journalist who wrote those articles. How a reporter tracked down the Beatles in Greece follows the media veteran’s story of how he located the Beatles' Athens hideout and later nabbed an impromptu interview with John Lennon – who unleashed an impassioned tirade against the British and US governments.

Back to the island

According to Tsirigotakis, the island the group wanted was Tsougria near Skiathos – the place where I first heard this story. But personally, I’m not so sure. It doesn’t match the descriptions well – and certainly not nearly as well as another location nearby.

I realised this after looking more carefully at some topographical details in a memoir by Beatles insider Alistair Taylor. Revealed: the island the Beatles 'wanted to buy', explains how Taylor’s clues about sailing through a "natural canal" spanned by a lifting bridge pointed toward the Evian Gulf. As it happens, the two islands most frequently associated with the Beatles – Agia Triada and Tsougria – are located in or near this part of Greece. But as I conclude in Where was the Greek island the Beatles wanted? The evidence, neither of these is likely to have been the group’s main target.

In my view, the most compelling candidate is another nearby location. It’s never named in the insider accounts. But in A closer look at the Lichadonisia, I examine how this cluster of islands matches these descriptions almost perfectly. The main island, Monolia, is 85 acres big with a gently curving bay, stone houses, and olive groves. When I visited, it was easy to imagine the Beatles seeing this accessible yet remote-feeling location as the perfect escape.

New evidence has since emerged that reinforces this view. As I discuss in George Harrison on Monolia?, recent live performances by Sir Paul McCartney have included apparent footage of Harrison in the Lichadonisia islands – strengthening the case that these were indeed the focus of the group’s interest.

Facts, finances and fantasies

The question of where the island was, though, is ultimately less consequential than understanding how and why these events happened. And the more I investigated, the more I appreciated the wide range of factors that may have influenced them. 'Alex said they could pay less tax in Greece': the financial context of the Beatles' island plans reveals the serious financial issues at play. The Beatles’ advisers had come to the view that with UK income tax rates reaching 90%, the group would benefit from careful financial planning. According to their accountant Stephen Maltz, Alexis Mardas claimed he could help them “pay a lot less tax in Greece”.

But while that may have been music to a tax professional’s ears, I doubt it was much motivation for the Beatles themselves – who were surely more interested in the recreational and artistic possibilities. In my view, the group’s state of mind at this time is likely to have been a far bigger influence. Many accounts suggest that their desire for privacy and respite from the pressures of fame, after years of global touring and Beatlemania, was strong.

In particular, John Lennon had an ongoing fascination with island escapes. My post on John Lennon's island fantasies (the most-read so far – originally a presentation to a conference at Liverpool Hope University) discusses Lennon's enduring interest in islands, from his childhood separation from his seafaring father to his purchase of Dorinish island in Ireland, and his creative renewal in Bermuda months before his death.

Trying to establish the details of these events has also led me to consider broader questions about truth and accuracy in writing about the Beatles. Where does the island name 'Leslo' come from? describes how I tracked down the likely source of this name through archival research, highlighting how inaccuracies can become embedded in accepted narratives.

It may be that the name ‘Leslo’ has its ultimate roots in the bizarre urban legends that I look at in ‘Be at Leso’: the strange world of Beatles mythology. Meanwhile, Mistake or misdirection? The ‘Aegos in Konstadinos’ mystery asks whether the other island name I encountered could be one of the cases where mild subterfuge was used to help maintain privacy for the Beatles. There may one day be an answer to these questions. But as I discuss in Who was the ‘Swedish actress’ with the Beatles in Greece?, getting closer to solving one puzzle often only leads to others.

These posts touch on the broader question of how much we really know about the Beatles – and how we know what we think we know. While the details of the group’s story are discussed extensively, the facts are often still hard to pin down – and that’s before we even think about how to interpret them. Every writer has their own biases and blind spots. So who do we trust, and why?

An ongoing story

In the end, the Beatles never did buy a Greek island. The purchase negotiations ran into complexities – and in any case, the death of their manager Brian Epstein soon after the trip changed everything. But that doesn’t mean the episode isn’t significant. It captures the group at an important point in time – and a small lens can bring focus to much larger issues.

The wider relevance of these events is reflected in the interest and coverage they have generated beyond this Substack. In 2023 the peer-reviewed Journal of Beatles Studies published my article ‘Used as propaganda’: the Beatles’ Greek island plans and international politics. This was featured in a report by Helena Smith in the Observer newspaper, emphasising the events’ political dimensions. For Declassified, I looked at archive evidence that underlines how the British establishment prioritised political stability and commercial interests in Greece over democracy. And for Erin Torkelson Weber’s website, I discussed the historiographical aspects of the story.

I’ve also discussed my research on the podcasts Beatles Books and Gimme Some Truth.

My investigations continue, with new developments coming soon. If you’re enjoying my work, please share this post to spread the word, and subscribe to find out where it leads next.

One persistently puzzling aspect of the Beatles’ dream of buying a Greek island is the name ‘Leslo’.

This is the label often attributed to the island the group wanted to buy in 1967 – and its appearance in books by respected Beatles authors lends weight to this supposed fact. However, there appears to be no actual Greek island that the name belongs to.

One of the most influential books that refers to ‘Leslo’ is Many Years from Now (1997), Barry Miles’ authorised biography of Paul McCartney. When I was in Liverpool last summer for a Beatles symposium, I had the chance to visit the archive at Liverpool John Moores University (LJMU) which holds the material Miles used to write this book – including his interview transcripts and early drafts.

You never know how useful an archive will be until you go, and many files that seem potentially promising yield nothing. But pleasingly, this visit did actually shed some light on the origins of ‘Leslo’: it appears that Miles added the name into his text at a late stage.

The archive holds a number of draft manuscripts of Miles’ book. All of these include the Greek island episode, but not all of them call the island ‘Leslo’. In two early versions, the island is simply described as "a large island of about 80 acres". But this changed by the time Miles submitted the manuscript to his editor. In this draft, the text uses the same description that appears in the published book: "the island of Leslo, of about 80 acres".

Here's the passage from Many Years From Now, where Miles describes the visit made by Alexis Mardas and Alistair Taylor to Greece to “look at real estate”.

After several false starts, they found the perfect place: the island of Leslo, of about 80 acres, with four idyllic beaches and four smaller habitable islands surrounding it – one for each Beatle. The entire property was for sale for £90,000, including a small fishing village of traditional white-painted houses grouped around a harbour filled with brightly coloured fishing boats and 16 acres of olive groves.

The LJMU archive also holds Miles’ interview transcripts, which record that Paul discussed the plans to buy a Greek island with the author in November 1992. But this conversation doesn’t include any of the specific details about the island that Miles gives in the quote above. So, where do these come from?

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It seems likely that Miles’ source for most of these is Alistair Taylor's memoir Yesterday (1988), which matches almost all of the details – from the £90,000 price tag to the 16 acres of olive groves. But crucially, Taylor doesn’t name the island.

I think it’s very possible that the name 'Leslo' comes from another book: Bill Harry's Ultimate Beatles Encyclopedia, published in 1992. (Like Yesterday, this is cited in the Many Years From Now bibliography.) Under the heading ‘Leslo’, Harry’s encyclopaedia says: “Name of the island which the Beatles purchased in 1967, intending it to be an idyllic retreat where they would create their own community.”

So, while ‘Leslo’ does appear in Paul McCartney’s authorised biography, it’s unlikely that this information came from the Beatle himself. It’s unlikely, too, that it was actually the name of the place the Beatles wanted in Greece (which in my view, was most likely the Lichadonisia islands). But if Miles did get the name from Bill Harry’s book, the mystery of ‘Leslo’ still isn’t solved completely: we still don’t know where Harry got it from. The other information in the encyclopaedia entry suggests that Peter Brown’s The Love You Make (1983) was a major source – but this book doesn’t give a name for the island. Perhaps ultimately the name derives from the bizarre ‘Be at Leso’ mythology which arose from the Sgt. Pepper album cover.

In any case, this issue does not detract from the strengths of Barry Miles’ book overall. The wealth of material in his archive made clear to me how in-depth and well-sourced Miles’ research was. The name of the island is a minor aspect of his book. However, the puzzle that it presents reminds us of how even in work by the most diligent authors, inaccuracies can creep in. That’s just the nature of researching and writing history.

We’re also reminded that writers often use information from other books. Again, this is a normal and expected part of the process. But it does have the potential to distort historical accounts. And one wonders what other inaccuracies it may have led to elsewhere within Beatles histories – especially where (as sometimes happens) material is recycled uncritically and without attribution.

For me, the ‘Leslo’ confusion also underlines the futility of believing that there will ever be a ‘definitive’ version of all the facts about the group – let alone how we interpret these. There’s always more to say about their story.

Read more:

Where is ‘Leslo’, the Greek island the Beatles wanted to buy?
John Lennon’s island fantasies
Actor, architect, soldier… spy? The intriguing inner circle of Alexis Mardas

A report in a Greek newspaper1 of the Beatles’ day trip from Athens, before they embarked on their island cruise, refers to a surprising member of their entourage.

After Paul McCartney and Julian Lennon had got in the sea at the beach of Itea, we are told, they were joined by others: Jane Asher, Cynthia Lennon, Pattie Harrison, and fourthly, “a Swedish actress in the party who kept her name secret”2.

This reference to a Swedish actress has always confused me. I wondered whether it could have been a kind of in-joke referring to Pattie’s sister, Paula Boyd, who was on the trip. After all, Paul McCartney has confessed that the Beatles at times tried to “plant lies to the press” and “award each other points for the best story printed”3.

The previously unknown footage that apparently shows George Harrison on the island of Monolia, though, suggests another possibility. Could the unidentified blonde woman walking behind Harrison be this same “Swedish actress”?

It’s an intriguing possibility, made all the more intriguing by the fact that this person does have a resemblance to a popular Swedish actress of the time.

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Ann-Margret Olsson

In my view, the woman bears a surprising similarity to Ann-Margret Olsson. Ann-Margret (who was known by her first name) was a Swedish-American actress and singer who rose to fame through her roles in films such as 1963’s Bye Bye Birdie and Viva Las Vegas the following year.

Ann-Margret’s on-screen chemistry with Elvis Presley in the latter led to reports of a romance between the pair. (In her autobiography4, Ann-Margret says that the two were “seeing each other”, commenting that Elvis “touched something deep within my psyche”.)

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Ann-Margret also had some connections to the Beatles. The group covered her song ‘I just don’t understand’ in 1963 for a BBC radio show. And in fact during the group’s 1964 US tour, Ringo Starr had to deny rumours that he and Ann-Margret were romantically involved (there’s no evidence to suggest that they were).

Interestingly, Ann-Margret did spend considerable time in Europe in 1967, acting in several Italian films. But there is one important fact that makes it very unlikely she was with the Beatles in Greece (at least, not in July 1967). At exactly the same time as their trip, she was appearing in her own live show at the Riviera Hotel in Las Vegas.

From 11 July, the performance ran every day until mid-August5. The Los Angeles Times wrote the day ahead of the opening night that it was “one of the most expensive acts ever brought to Vegas” reportedly costing about $100,000 ($1m in today’s money). On 13 July, the same newspaper praised the first night of Ann-Margret’s “highly polished, skilfully devised show”, noting that she would put on “fourteen – or is it fifteen? – shows a week for five weeks”.

With that schedule from 11 July to 15 August, it clearly would have been impossible for Ann-Margret to join the Beatles in Greece (members of the group were there from 20 July to 31 July). That leaves two possible explanations. Either the woman in the clip isn’t Ann-Margret, or the footage was taken on a different visit to Greece.

Another trip?

It’s worth noting that according to one newspaper, George Harrison and Paul McCartney did make another trip to Greece. The Daily Express reported on 22 August that the two had “returned to Athens to sort out details” of the planned island purchase with Jeffrey Maunsell, who was a solicitor at Goodman Derrick. But if this second trip did happen, by the time the newspaper article appeared the two Beatles were back in London6. And even if for some reason Ann-Margret did join them in Greece in August, that wouldn’t explain the reference to the “Swedish actress” at Itea in July.

Given that we only have about a second of footage to go on, there remain many unknowns. And the apparent resemblance of the woman walking behind Harrison to Ann-Margret could well just be a coincidence. But whatever the case, the appearance of the woman in this film, and her unknown identity - as well as the newspaper’s mention of a supposed Swedish actress - add further puzzling dimensions to the Beatles’ Greek trip.

The clip appears at 1:43

Like the island the Beatles are said to have wanted, the largest island in this group – called Monolia – is about 80 acres in size, and is near several smaller islands. Alongside various other parallels with the evidence, Monolia also seems to make a notable appearance in The Beatles Anthology TV documentary.

However, considerable mystery remains about the trip, not least because there were no known photos or videos showing the Beatles setting foot on any identifiable Greek island. That, though, may now have changed: a video played on Paul McCartney’s current tour seems to include a brief shot of George Harrison on Monolia.

The eagle-eyed Beatles researcher Obadiah Jones (who I spoke to for this podcast episode on the Beatles Greece trip) first alerted me to the clip – which was shown during the first live performance of ‘Now and Then’ by Paul McCartney in Montevideo on 1 October (and since in later shows).

Intriguingly, the style of the stone houses, the black rocks and the shape of the trees in this image are indeed reminiscent of Monolia. I initially wondered if the footage could be from the Beatles’ famous trip to India. However, Harrison’s look here is definitely much closer to the Greece photos than those from Rishikesh in 1968.

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You can see the clip itself play for about a second at 1:43 in the video below.

Seeking further clarity, I consulted Giorgos Lyberis – whose family historically lived on Monolia and still owns land there. While he couldn’t say for sure, he thought it was possible the clip showed the island. He also sent me a photograph taken in 1974 of the village on Monolia – presumably looking fairly similar to how it did in 1967.

Obadiah has now carried out further detective work on this photo. And in my view, the markings he has added to the two images below make a convincing case for them showing the same location. The coloured crosses denote the same structure in each photo, seen from different angles (the arrow shows where George Harrison would be standing).

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Incidentally, the 1970s photograph is also a close match to Alistair Taylor’s recollection of “white-painted old Greek houses scattered along the waterfront” on the island the Beatles had wanted1. We may also be able to connect this scene to one that appears in ‘Fifty Years Adrift’, the autobiography by the Beatles’ publicist Derek Taylor, which includes a series of quotes from George Harrison. In that book, Harrison recalls the Greek island visit:

“The island was covered in rocks but very pleasant. Eventually we landed on a little beach with a village. As soon as we did, there was a clap of thunder and lighting and it poured with rain. We all ran for cover into somebody’s hut and all the local fishermen were friendly and gave us glasses of wine. ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph,’ they were saying. ‘This hasn’t happened for the last 5,000 years.’ It was like a big omen. Amen.”

As Obadiah pointed out to me, Harrison’s hair, that of the woman just behind him, and the shiny rocks, all look in the clip like they could have been recently rained on. The hut that George mentions to may refer to the ‘kiosk’ that can be seen on the right of both photos (marked with the red cross) - the roofed structure on the shore that fishermen used for shelter and storage. Here’s a picture of one in use :

If the analysis above is right, then the building that can be just seen in the top left of the clip shown during Sir Paul’s performance is the small church of Agios Georgios on Monolia. This is what it looks like today:

Of course, the fact that Harrison apparently went to Monolia doesn’t prove that the Beatles wanted to buy it. But this was the island I thought was most likely anyway – and seeing apparent evidence of a Beatle there makes the possibility seem all the more real.

An additional puzzle about the photograph concerns the woman walking just behind Harrison. My first thought was that this was Paula Boyd – the sister of George’s wife Pattie, who was on the Greece trip. But in photos from Greece, Paula’s hair is much shorter than this. And it doesn’t look like Pattie Harrison either.

So this person’s identity at present remains unclear. I do have some thoughts on this, which I’ll write about soon.

You can listen to the discussion about the Beatles’ trip to Greece in this episode of Obadiah Jones’s podcast, Gimme Some Truth.

Read more:

John Lennon’s island fantasies
Where is ‘Leslo’, the Greek island the Beatles wanted to buy?
How a reporter tracked down the Beatles in Greece

While there may be some confusion about which Greek island the Beatles wanted to buy in 1967, there’s little doubt that most enthusiastic of the group about buying one was John Lennon. And from writing about these events, I’ve realised that Lennon’s interest in islands went way beyond this. He seems to have been fascinated by them. And I think examining that fascination might tell us quite a lot about John, and how his personal relationship to islands forms part of wider cultural patterns.

Exploring Lennon’s interest in islands, for example, might help us understand how he thought and felt – including his utopian and idealistic tendencies. It could give us some clues about his reading habits. It might give us a new way of looking at the Beatles song, Dr Robert. It can help shed light on his apparently nonsensical literary writing. And I think ultimately, it can help us understand Lennon’s relationship with his father.

Read more:

The intriguing inner circle of Alexis Mardas
George Harrison on Monolia?

Idealised lifestyles

These themes become clearer when we look at the various ways Lennon’s interest in islands manifested. It was of course the mysterious figure of ‘Magic’ Alexis Mardas – the electronics whizz introduced to the group as John’s “new guru” – who persuaded the Beatles to visit Greece in search of an island. But the idea of them living communally seems to have been under discussion already. And we can see from the comments made by John that he in particular was considering the possibility in some detail. This is what he said to a journalist while the group were in Greece:

“…we are seriously thinking of buying a small Greek island and setting up our own hippie commune there, so we can do what we want without anyone disturbing us. We’ll build villas there for us and our colleagues and live there six months of the year.”1

The Beatles biographer Hunter Davies tells us that John was “particularly keen on” the Greek island idea, saying it was “discussed for many weeks”. Davies adds that “it even got to the stage of what to do about Julian and his schooling” – referring to John’s son, who was four years old at the time.

A few months before the Beatles went to Greece, John had already bought his own island, in the country of Ireland. The island was called Dorinish – one of many islands in Clew Bay, County Mayo. Lennon bought it in March 1967. He only visited twice, but he had plans to build a house there. And in 1970, John imagined a future when he and Yoko Ono were “a nice old couple living off the coast of Ireland”. A community of hippies lived on Dornish in the early seventies, who Lennon donated money to. But in the end, Yoko sold the island a few years after John died.

But the fact that Lennon bought Dorinish, and then a few months later was encouraging the Beatles to buy another island, does underline his fascination. And I think we can connect this fascination to Lennon’s tendency towards idealistic and utopian thinking. We see that tendency in Lennon’s political activism. We also see it in his songs – from the optimistic yearnings of Imagine, to the dream-like nostalgia of Strawberry Fields Forever. And we can also see it in the imagined island lifestyles in Greece and Ireland that John fantasised about.

It's interesting to look more closely at the connections between islands and fantasies – both in terms of John Lennon’s specific experiences, and in a wider cultural sense. Because islands are physically isolated, they’re often places where society’s norms can be suspended or upended, and where different ways of living can be explored. Indeed, the word utopia – which means nowhere – was coined in 1516 as the name of an imaginary island. It’s the title of a book by Thomas More which describes an idealised civilisation on that island. Unlike the Tudor England More lived in, in his utopia there’s no money or private property, there’s freedom of religion, and war is despised.

So for both More and Lennon, islands offered the chance to imagine societies completely different to their daily realities. And this role of islands continues to the modern day. In a book published in 2020 called Island Dreams, the writer Gavin Francis explores his own fascination with islands. On his travels, Francis comes to this realisation:

“There seemed to be a connection between a certain kind of sparsely populated island, remote from urban centres, and dreams. Or perhaps it is that such islands have the power of concentrating dreamers.”

Aldous Huxley: John’s ‘new guvnor’

As well as being a dreamer, John Lennon was also a big reader. And I think it’s possible that a particular book may have played a part in his interest in islands. That book is called Island. It was written by Aldous Huxley and published in 1962. Huxley was a big influence on the 1960s counterculture because of his writing on psychedelic drugs, particularly his account of taking mescalin in his book, The Doors of Perception.

Huxley features on the Sgt. Pepper album cover. And John Lennon in particular had a strong interest in him. In 1966, he included “Aldous Huxley books” among the “prized possessions” he listed to the journalist Ray Coleman. John explained: “I’ve just started reading him because he’s the new guvnor, it seems to me”. I’ve not seen any specific evidence that John read Island. But we know he liked Huxley, and we know he liked islands. So I think it’s worth looking at that book’s content and how it might relate to Lennon’s life and work.

Huxley’s Island: Palan society and Dr Robert

Huxley’s Island centres around a civilisation on the remote Pacific island of Pala. People live there in peace, plenty and good health, combining Eastern philosophy with Western science. The insights gained through a hallucinogenic fungus called the moksha-medicine help create a utopian society. On Pala, there’s no military and little crime. There’s economic equality, political autonomy, and no established church. So there’s plenty of common ground with Thomas More’s utopia – and more than a passing resemblance to the lyrics of Lennon’s Imagine.

At the start of the book, a cynical British journalist called Will Farnaby is shipwrecked on the island. A doctor called Robert McPhail – who’s descended from one of the society’s founders – helps Farnaby recover. Through his conversations with this doctor and other people, Farnaby gradually comes to understand and embrace the Palan way of life. The book culminates with Farnaby sampling the moksha-medicine and glimpsing enlightenment.

When I read Island, what strikes me is that not only is Dr Robert McPhail a central character in the book – but that he’s consistently, and frequently, referred to by the specific name, “Dr Robert”. So, could (as some have suggested) the book have inspired Lennon when writing the Beatles song with that name? The song is typically seen as a sort of sly joke, referencing either a specific New York doctor, called Robert Freymann, or the art dealer Robert Fraser. Both of those people were known for providing drugs. But I think we can also read the song more earnestly, as a Huxleyan story of enlightenment through psychedelics. After all, in the song, Dr Robert has a “special cup”. He “helps you understand”, “see yourself”, and indeed become a “new and better man”.2

I think those themes correspond closely to the personal journey of Will Farnaby in Island. He moves from an attitude of scepticism and exploitation towards understanding and insight. And some of the song’s language recalls Huxley’s Island. The word ‘understanding’, for example, is used repeatedly in the final section of the book, when Farnaby takes the moksha-medicine. Here’s a quote from that passage:

“It was not only bliss, it was also understanding. Understanding of everything, but without knowledge of anything”.

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Gurus and father figures

Lennon was interested in Huxley, he was interested in islands – and he loved word play and double meanings. So I think the idea that the book’s character of ‘Dr Robert’ was one inspiration for the song is certainly plausible. But just as interesting is the way that the book’s story fits into wider cultural patterns.

Huxley’s Island isn’t a straightforwardly positive narrative. At the end of the book, it’s clear that the paradise of Pala will not last much longer, and Dr Robert himself is executed. That transience aligns with many other island stories, which play with the idea that the location is not entirely real. But even when they are fantasies, islands still offer real value. As Will Farnaby’s story shows, their strangeness can present new challenges that bring about personal struggles and crises. And this can lead to growth and change if the characters respond appropriately.

This tendency is linked to a literary trope that we can see in the figure of Dr Robert. Where an island represents the disruption of established norms, there’s often an intermediary character. And this person, who is typically male, acts as a bridge between the familiar world and the world of the island. They may be represented as wise and admirable, but also subversive and potentially dangerous.

In More’s Utopia, the account of the island society is related by a mysterious traveller called Raphael Hythloday. Hythloday is praised for his eloquence and knowledge, but also presented as an unkempt outsider – “sunburnt, with a shaggy beard and a coat slung carelessly over his shoulder”. Another island-based story is Shakespeare’s Tempest. In that play, the central character is the deposed duke of Milan, Prospero, who has been exiled to a remote island. Prospero learns magic on the island, which he uses to bring about a shipwreck and then control the people who are stranded. Some of those people previously betrayed Prospero. But at the end, the play allows for hope, forgiveness and some reconciliation.

For me, Raphael Hythloday, Robert McPhail, and Prospero are all examples of these ambiguous intermediary figures, who use their island-gleaned knowledge to guide others towards insights and awareness. Indeed, we could describe them as gurus. And gurus are something that John Lennon had an abiding interest in. He consistently developed significant relationships with male mentors and role models. Some early examples of these are the Beatles’ manager Brian Epstein, and George Martin, their producer. In the mid-sixties Lennon met Alexis Mardas, who he introduced to the group literally as his “new guru”. Soon afterwards he visited the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi to learn meditation in India, and later saw the primal therapist Arthur Janov. All of these men gained John’s admiration and sought to influence him through new experiences, understanding or even enlightenment.

Alfred Lennon: ‘married to the sea’

So what drove Lennon’s gravitation towards these figures? I think it probably had something to do with his father, Alfred Lennon. John saw very little of his dad throughout his life. Alfred’s work as a merchant seaman meant from John’s birth until he was three, his father had only spent about three months in Liverpool. We’re told that John’s mother Julia complained that Alfred was “married to the sea”. Following numerous disruptions and marital discord, from the age of five John’s main carer was his maternal aunt, Mimi Smith. He didn’t see Alfred again until he was 23. And in 1980 Yoko Ono highlighted this lack in John’s life, saying: “I think he has this father complex and he’s always searching for a daddy”.

We’ve seen how from a cultural viewpoint, islands are often associated with these guru-type figures. And I think it’s interesting how this dovetails with the specific circumstances of Lennon’s life. There’s a clear connection between his father’s absences and the sea, and John seems to have been deeply aware of this. In a memoir by Pauline Lennon – who was Alfred’s second wife – she describes John’s “love/hate relationship with the sea”, writing:

“Since early childhood the ocean had held a romantic fascination for John as the means whereby Freddie had escaped from Liverpool to live a life of freedom and adventure and John in turn had yearned to follow his father’s example and himself run away to sea.

But at the same time John had long harboured feelings of fear and resentment towards the sea for having stolen his father from him…”.

Some of Alfred Lennon’s absences have a connection with islands specifically. He made trips to the Mediterranean and the Caribbean. And in 1943, he was detained on Ellis Island in New York after deliberately missing his ship.                          

And the possibility of John moving with his father to live in the island nation of New Zealand is at the heart of a notorious incident in Blackpool in 1946. In the traditional version of that story (which Alf Lennon told to Hunter Davies) the five-year-old Lennon was forced to choose between his father and his mother. John was all set to emigrate to New Zealand with Alfred, before at the last minute running to stay in Liverpool with Julia. The renowned Beatles historian Mark Lewisohn offers us a less dramatic version of this story3 - but here, too, the possibility of John living in New Zealand comes up in the discussions. Whatever actually happened, it must have been bewildering for John. And however unrealistic Alfred’s plan was, in John’s young mind that decisive parting with his father may have been associated with the idea of moving to an island.

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Lennon’s own reading and writing

So I think there are some fascinating parallels between John’s interest in islands, his interest in gurus, and his father’s absences. Those absences were linked to the sea, and sometimes specifically to islands. The figure of the electronics ‘wizard’ Magic Alex, who guided the Beatles around Greek islands in 1967, brings together John’s interest both in islands and in gurus particularly clearly. And we might also see the discussions that year about moving Lennon’s four-year-old son to an island as an echo of John’s experience in Blackpool decades earlier.

And while we don’t know whether Lennon read Huxley’s Island, he had a clear interest in another island-based story – Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson. Lennon named this as one of the children’s books that had “opened up [his] whole being”. The book and its characters – like the charismatic pirate Long John Silver – were well known in post-war British culture, partly through film and TV adaptations. And the character of Long John Silver is said to have inspired one of the Beatles’ early names – Long John and the Silver Beetles.

An important theme in Treasure Island is the father-son dynamic. The narrator is a teenage boy called Jim Hawkins, whose father dies early in the book. And the relationship Jim forms with Long John Silver – despite the pirate’s moral ambiguity – helps Jim see new perspectives and mature.

John Lennon highlights this aspect of the story in his own literary work. In 1964, he published a collection of writing called In His Own Write – which has seen him compared to writers like Lewis Carrol and even James Joyce for the book’s word-play and surrealism – and it contains many of Lennon’s own illustrations. One of the stories is a parody of Treasure Island called Treasure Ivan, featuring the characters Large John Saliver and Small Jack Hawkins. In that story, Lennon writes:

“Large John began to look upon Jack as a son or something, for he was ever putting his arm about him and saying ‘Ha Haaaaar’, especially with a Parable on his shouldy.”

The next year, Lennon published another literary collection called A Spaniard in the Works, which also includes an island-based story. A 30-stanza poem called The Wumberlog (Or the Magic Dog) tells the story of a boy who escapes from his home to travel to “the land / Where all the secrets hid”. Guided by a friendly magic dog and a bird called a wumberlog, he rows a boat to an island where “wondrous peoble” [people] … “live when they are dead”.

When the boy gets to the island, he finds the people digging holes and burying each other up to the neck. Personally, I think we can see the boy’s journey to the island of secrets in this poem as a way of Lennon exploring the secrets in his own psyche. We can see this particularly in the penultimate two stanzas – which are talking about the people on the island:

Without a word, and spades on high,
They all dug deep and low,
And placed the boy into a hole,
Next to his Uncle Joe.

‘I told you not to come out here,’
His uncle said, all sad.
‘I had to Uncle,’ said the boy.
You’re all the friend I had.’

To me, those verses convey the loneliness of Lennon’s childhood, when he did actually have to go and live with his uncle (and aunt). They were, in other words, “all the friend [he] had”. John developed a particularly warm relationship with his uncle George Smith (Mimi’s husband), who was indeed a substitute father figure. George died when Lennon was fourteen. And the journey to the strange island in this poem could be a way of Lennon addressing that loss.

The poem also highlights how the association between islands, and guru or father figures, is a recurrent theme. Not just in culture generally, but also in John Lennon’s literary writing and in his actual life. When I first noticed this, I found it quite surprising. I wasn’t expecting the same theme to come up so often in different situations. But when you think about it, islands provide opportunities for introspection, as well as growth and change. So perhaps it isn’t quite so surprising that they often prompt people to grapple with their most fundamental relationships.

Bermuda

These themes really come into focus in the last year of John’s life. As the culmination of a growing interest in sailing, in summer 1980 Lennon took part in a 600-mile yacht trip to Bermuda. On the way, the boat was caught in a violent three-day storm, and for six hours John unexpectedly had to take the helm himself. Being thrown into this situation proved to be a profound and cathartic experience which Lennon described as “the time of [his] life”. The boat’s captain felt that the drama “connected [John] in some way with his dad” and “brought some huge healing”.

Until then, John had been living a domestic life for years. But he later said that after this voyage, he felt “tuned in, or whatever, to the cosmos. And all these songs came!” During two months on Bermuda, Lennon experienced a creative resurgence. He worked on many songs for he and Yoko’s album Double Fantasy – named after a flower that John saw on the island. John was joined on Bermuda by his younger son, Sean, who was then almost five. Together, they had their portrait painted by an artist who noted the pair’s “beautiful relationship”. The painting was later hung above a piano in John’s Dakota apartment in New York.

So as I’ve discussed here, islands in culture are not only connected with fantasies. They’re also often locations for existential struggles, the exploration of father-son relationships and personal growth. And in Lennon’s last trip to an island, he seems to have convincingly faced up to these challenges himself. The touching images of him and Sean on Bermuda suggest he had moved beyond his troubled relationship with Alfred to develop a warm connection to his own son. These feelings are clearly expressed in Lennon’s song, Beautiful Boy – which he recorded a demo for on Bermuda – and which begins and ends with the sounds of the ocean.

Months after his trip to Bermuda, John’s life would tragically end. But on that most remote of islands, his lifelong fascination had eventually led him to real rewards: peace, fulfilment and creative renewal.

This post is based on a presentation I gave at the International Beatles Symposium at Liverpool Hope University in July 2024.

“I loved it,” he says. “I loved all the decoy cars and all these intricate ways of getting us to the gigs.”

As I write about in more detail below, it was fairly common for various forms of benign subterfuge to be used as a way of dealing with the attention that came with the Beatles’ huge fame – helping them maintain some semblance of privacy and security. On another occasion, Ringo compared such tactics to being “like the bloody Secret Service”. But what relevance does this have for the group’s plans to buy a Greek island?

The fact that sometimes the people around the Beatles disguised, or directed people away from, aspects of the group’s lives came to mind after I spoke to Obadiah Jones about my research for his podcast, ‘Gimme Some Truth’ (you can listen to the episode on the Beatles’ Greece trip here).

As we discussed, one element of the Beatles’ Greek adventure remains particularly puzzling. In accounts of the events, not one, but two specific names are given for the island they wanted – neither of which are the names of actual Greek islands. Here I’ll focus on the name provided in the National Archives documents concerning the events, which state that the island’s name is “Aegos in Konstadinos”, or “Aegos, Konstadinos, Greece”.

As is also the case for the other supposed name, “Leslo”, there is no Greek island called Aegos in Konstadinos. However, there is a real location, Agios Konstantinos, with a very similar name – and which also happens to be very close to the route the Beatles took. Agios Konstantinos is a port on the Greek mainland, in the Gulf of Evia which the Beatles sailed up on the yacht. It’s close to all of the islands linked with the group. Ferries depart from there to Skiathos (next to Tsougria) to this day, and it’s particularly near the Lichadonisia, which (as I realised when I visited in 2020), you can see the from the town’s beach.

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And the two names really are extremely similar. In Greek, the difference between ‘Aegos’ and ‘Agios’ is just one letter in a different place (Αíγος/Áγιος). Αnd since there is no letter representing the hard ‘d’ sound, this is usually written with the Greek letters for ‘nt’ (ντ). So in Greek, the second parts of the names are effectively identical (Κωνσταντíνος).

In other words, it’s very possible that the non-existent island name “Aegos, Konstadinos” emerged as a slightly distorted form of the name, Agios Konstantinos – which is a real place. It’s not an island, but it’s close to islands the Beatles were contemplating buying.

Mistake or misdirection?

If so, how did this distortion happen? It’s certainly possible that there could have been a mistake, where the name of the island was somehow confused with a nearby port. It’s plausible that someone connected with the events passed through Agios Konstantinos at some point (for example, Alexis Mardas or Alistair Taylor). And perhaps someone later couldn’t quite remember the name accurately, or made an error transliterating it from Greek. Given the many people involved with the plans (including a distinguished law firm), it would perhaps seem surprising if no one thought to check the actual name of the island before making the application to the government – but such things do happen.

In my opinion, there is also an alternative possible explanation. And this is associated with the clear record of people working for the Beatles using misdirection to avoid unwanted attention. The “decoy cars” mentioned by Ringo were real things, as André Millard writes in his 2012 book, Beatlemania:

“By necessity the security arrangements for their concert tours were as meticulously planned as military operations, involving elaborate ruses like decoys and deliberately misleading the waiting press corps… They travelled in police cars, ambulances, armored cars and even fish trucks to avoid the mob. They exchanged clothes with policemen to dupe the waiting throngs and often disguised themselves if they had the nerve to leave the hotel and walk outside.”

People who were close to the Beatles on tour recall such tactics being used. Comparable subterfuge was also sometimes used by those buying property on behalf of the group. Alistair Taylor, for example, tells us that he would typically deal with estate agents “under my own name, because the prices would rise astronomically if they knew I that I am acting for the Beatles”. He bought the island of Dorinish in Ireland for John Lennon in this way – claiming to be a “London entrepreneur”. Similarly, from the Beatles’ former accountant Harry Pinsker (who I spoke to in 2015), I learned that he posed as the buyer of Ringo’s ‘Sunny Heights’ house in Weybridge in 1965 on behalf of the Beatle in similar circumstances, before the name was switched on the contract.

The situation with the Greek island isn’t directly analogous to any of these situations. But these stories, and other accounts, make clear that the Beatles’ associates would sometimes use such strategies to help deal with the consequences of the group’s fame. So in my view, it’s far from implausible that similar sleight of hand was used with the Greek island, too – possibly to help deter media interest. (The documents containing the name “Aegos” weren’t public, but there could have been concern about the information leaking out.) Remember, part of the motivation for the group getting a Greek island was for respite from the crowds. And when visiting Greece, despite apparently being “used…as propaganda”, the Beatles seem to have been highly sensitive about attention from the public and the media, and were apparently keen to avoid this.

So, the seemingly inaccurate name “Aegos” appearing in the documents about the island could certainly have been a mistake. But there’s also the possibility that it was added more deliberately and knowingly.

The application letter

Or perhaps it was some strange combination of both – a possibility which becomes clearer if we look at the timing of the events. The letter from the Beatles’ lawyers, Goodman Derrick, applying for the required currency permission and containing the name “Aegos in Konstadinos”, is dated 25 July. If accurate, that means it was written while the Beatles were in Greece, but before they had visited any of the islands in question (it was the day the yacht left Athens).

We are also told (in a Greek newspaper report) that Alistair Taylor departed Greece on 27 July – the day after the Beatles visited the Lichadonisia islands, quite possibly to progress the purchase. And we know that of the various islands the Beatles were considering, the description in the application document is closest to the Lichadonisia. And this “paradise” archipelago also seems to have been identified in advance as the favoured location. So, the letter appears to have been written at a time when:

• The Beatles didn’t know for sure which island they wanted, and hadn’t visited any of them yet

• But there was a clear front-runner that had been identified (the Lichadonisia)

• And, all the islands under consideration were fairly close to the port of Agios Konstantinos (in the case of the Lichadonisia, very close).

It seems that for some reason – possibly time pressure – the letter was drafted before the Beatles had visited any of the islands in question. (A note from a Bank of England official about the application on 31 July said noted that “there is some urgency in this case as the offer may be lost in the face of considerable competition”.

In any case, the result of this situation is that the documents include an apparent description of the Lichadonisia islands – but with some details left vague, and given the name “Aegos, Konstadinos”. (As you can see in the photo above, the size of the island itself isn’t stated, and the name and address of its vendor are “to be supplied”).

How exactly this came to be, we don’t know. But whether by accident or design, it’s actually quite a good solution to the uncertainty of the situation. Though the name provided is ultimately inaccurate, it’s accurate enough to avoid any major difficulties. And whether or not it was a mistake, it could be plausibly passed off as one – with the added bonus of helping to maintain privacy.

Perhaps, like the decoy cars and the disguises, the supposed island name “Aegos in Konstadinos” involved deliberate sleight of hand in some way. Perhaps it was a convenient placeholder. Perhaps it was just a mistake. Or perhaps it was none of these – or all three.

I’ve spent plenty of time discussing the evidence for which island in Greece the Beatles wanted to buy – and arguing the case for the Lichadonisia as the main focus of the group’s interest. But abstract analysis can only tell you so much. With this in mind, in 2020 I visited this group of islands to get a first-hand impression. The archipelago has an unusually captivating atmosphere – and from what I could see, there’s plenty there that matches what we’re told in accounts of the Beatles’ plans.

Despite frequently being described as the ‘Greek Seychelles’, the Lichadonisia remain relatively little known. But in summer, there are regular trips there both from the Greek mainland and the large neighbouring island of Evia. One morning in early September, I bought a ticket from Kavos, at Evia’s north-western tip, to the largest island in the archipelago, Monolia. I was the only passenger on the tiny boat as it sped across to the island. The sun sparkled on the calm water’s surface as it lapped against the side. Taking a brief detour along the channel between Monolia and the nearest other islet, the driver pointed out the outline of a second world war shipwreck on the seabed 10 metres below, and told me how seals can often be spotted in the water around the islands.

It's from off the shore of Monolia that you can best observe its distinctive combination of black volcanic rocks, yellow sand and thick vegetation. Combined with the archipelago’s flat silhouettes, it creates an unmistakeable visual effect – one that also appears in the Beatles Anthology TV series. To my mind (and local people that I’ve shown the footage to), it’s beyond doubt that Monolia appears in the short section of that documentary that covers the Greece trip.

‘Gently curving bay’

After about fifteen minutes, the boat dropped me off at one end of Monolia’s sandy main beach. At that time, I was virtually the only visitor on the island – but as the day went on, the wooden tables and sunbeds filled with tourists, and by lunchtime the beach bar and grill was doing a brisk trade. The curved shape of the beach creates a natural harbour, and when I visited there were several small boats moored near the shore. As the sun approached its mid-day intensity, increasing numbers of people waded out into the bay to cool off in its turquoise-tinted waters.

In his 1988 memoir, Yesterday, the Beatles’ ‘Mr Fixit’ Alistair Taylor refers to the island selected for the group having a “gently curving bay…filled with brightly coloured high-prowed wooden fishing boats”. This could describe numerous places in Greece. But Monolia – if we allow for a modernisation in the type of boat – would certainly be among them.

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Houses

Just a few minutes’ walk from the top of the beach, a number of buildings sit on the opposite side of the island. The small white church of Agios Georgios is still in use – sometimes as a venue for weddings – but the other structures are in various states of ruin, lending the place a romantic air. The Lichadonisia are now uninhabited, but until the early 1960s, they were a permanent home to dozens of people. At the time of the Beatles’ plans, the proposed sale documents refer to “five vacant fisherman’s houses”, which the group intended to renovate to “make them suitable for habitation”.

Taylor refers to a village on the main island, consisting of “half a dozen tall old Greek houses”, which were painted white and “scattered along the waterfront”. Today, while the state of some of the buildings makes it difficult to say exactly, there seem to be about that number. While technically they are not (as in Taylor’s account) directly on the curving bay, they are located very close to it.

Other islets

A significant point, according to several key accounts, is that the Beatles were interested specifically in a group of islands, rather than one single island. The exact number given is not always consistent. The lawyers’ documents refer to one main island as well as “five smaller unnamed offshore islands”, while Taylor refers to “at least four other smaller islands”. But several sources are clear that the place in question included one larger island and several smaller ones.

That also happens to be quite an accurate description of the Lichadonisia. At around 80 acres big, Monolia is the largest in the group. Very close to it are five smaller islets. When you visit, it’s clear that these form a coherent unit – similar in appearance and located closely together. From Monolia, the others are close enough to see easily (although I was told that the current would make it dangerous to swim between them).

The sixth Lichadonisia islet, Strongyli, is a bit of an outlier – slightly further away, and differentiated through its domed shape rising from the water. Home to a lighthouse, it is owned by the Hellenic Navy, and I suggest may not have been part of the proposed sale to the Beatles. If so, the documents’ reference to one main island and five smaller islands would be entirely accurate. The vagueness of the language in some accounts could be down to the nature of the archipelago. While there are seven named islets in the Lichadonisia (including Monolia), there are also a various even smaller bits of land and rock, known as Pontikonisia, that don’t have their own names.

Olives

Another noticeable aspect of some accounts is the prominence given to olives. In Yesterday, for example, Taylor says that the main island had “sixteen acres of olive groves, said to produce the finest olives in the district”. He adds that there was “a big olive company who buy the harvesting rights on the islands and would carry on the deal with us”. Taylor even tells us that he looked up the price of olives and calculated that “the income from the olive groves will pay for the place in about seven years”.

Olives are abundant in Greece. But the amount of space that Taylor dedicates to discussing the crops is still surprising. When you visit the area near the Lichadonisia, it makes more sense. It can seem like there are olives everywhere, with many parts of North Evia and the nearby Greek mainland covered with acre upon acre of groves. I don’t know the exact size of the area covered by olives on Monolia. But in the island’s interior, there are a lot of wild olive trees with thick, gnarled branches. While I’m sure there are other parts of Greece with as many olives, the character of the area does suggest a way of understanding Taylor’s focus.

Exotic yet accessible

Alistair Taylor’s account of the island the Beatles wanted gives the impression that it was truly a special place – but also easy to get to from Athens. In Yesterday, he writes that on his island-hunting trip with Alexis Mardas:

“We drove out of Athens to a local village and took a fishing boat out … to Paradise.”

Taylor describes the island as the “perfect setting for the Beatles” – adding that when the group themselves saw it they declared: “Yeow! This can’t be true!”. He writes of the Beatles and their entourage:

“All day they explored the place, setting off for the other little islands and meeting each other to compare notes, telling each other where the main house could be, discussing where they wanted the recording studios to be built, joking about who could live on which island, all totally in love with the place.”

Taylor’s account gives the impression that the Beatles were not just approving of these islands, but completely enamoured with them. Likewise, many visitors to the Lichadonisia convey a sense of awe at reaching a hidden paradise that is paradoxically so accessible. The archipelago is regularly compared to the Bahamas as well as the Seychelles. And yet from Athens, it can be reached via a couple of hours’ drive followed by a very short boat trip. The Greek newspaper Kathimerini in 2014 reported a place “so ours and so exotic at the same time” – while in 2018, CNN Greece declared that “never before has a paradise been so close”.

Many Greek islands have turquoise waters and sandy beaches. But isn’t these alone that give the Lichadonisia their appeal. Tucked peacefully between mountains on each horizon, the archipelago possesses an other-worldy quality. Perhaps it’s the relics of former settlements, the wild nature surrounded by tranquil seas – or even the unusual shape of the islands, that almost seem to dissolve into the water. But the feeling is unmistakeable. And it makes the rapturous responses reported in Alistair Taylor’s account all the more believable.

So, was this the group of islands that the Beatles wanted? We know that the group travelled very close to the Lichadonisia on their island cruise. I haven’t seen specific evidence that they set foot there - but shots of the archipelago appear in Anthology, and several aspects of the islands match descriptions of the place that the four desired. After visiting, I can also report another significant factor: the vibes feel right.

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A secret service connection? Argyris Mardas, IDEA and KYP|
Lord Goodman: Lawyer to the Beatles - and the prime minister
How a reporter tracked down the Beatles in Greece

“His dad was something to do with the military in Greece, and Alex knew all the military there, very strange.”

That’s how George Harrison described Alexis Mardas1. And it’s far from the only reference to Alexis’ father – whose first name we know was Argyris – having military or state connections. Several accounts also suggest there was an element of secrecy to his work. In 1979, the journalist Duncan Campbell wrote that Alexis’ father was “a major in the Greek secret police”.2

Given that Alexis Mardas was a central figure in organising the Beatles’ trip to Greece in 1967, and supporting their plans to buy a Greek island, it would make sense to look at these claims more closely. It’s previously been credibly suggested to me that Alexis’ father worked for KYP – Greece’s Central Intelligence Service. If true, this might explain both the military and ‘secret’ themes which consistently crop up in relation to him.

That possibility seems to line up with all the known facts. And as I was researching the history of KYP in more detail, I discovered something that makes the suggestion that Argyris Mardas worked for the organisation more compelling. An officer with the same name was a key member of a secret right-wing group in the Greek army – which shared many members with KYP and was an influential political forerunner of the colonels’ military dictatorship.

Military origins

The roots of both KYP and Greece’s 1967 junta go back to the second world war, and the country’s bitter civil war that was fought in the following years. During Greece’s occupation by Axis forces, communist-led guerrilla groups carried out the lion’s share of resistance activities – initially supported by the British and the Americans despite ideological differences. But as the country’s liberation looked increasingly likely and the post-war situation came into view, tensions grew between communist-dominated and non-communist groups, and soon broke out into violence.

The possibility of communists gaining political influence loomed large in post-war Greek politics – particularly given Greece’s strategic importance for NATO. Following the end of the civil war in 1949, containing the threat of communism became a preoccupation of successive Greek governments, with considerable backing from the US.

This was also the central purpose of KYP. After it was founded in 1953, the organisation’s role was to “face the internal threat of Greek communism and its ramifications outside Greece”, according to Pavlos Apostolidis, a former director of KYP’s successor agency, EYP. The organisation was “staffed mainly by army officers in the key positions”, says Apostolidis. And after the colonels’ military dictatorship took power in 1967, he writes that it became “the bulwark of the regime and the enemy of its opponents, at home and abroad”.3

Two of the junta’s leaders – George Papadopoulos and Nicholas Makarezos – “had in the past held key positions” in KYP, Apostolidis tells us. And the historian Eleni Braat writes that “the KYP and the colonels maintained close ties”, with the head of the KYP during the junta being “a close friend of Papadopoulos”. In fact, “persisting associations” with the dictatorship have prompted ongoing suspicion towards KYP in more recent decades, and repeated calls for its demilitarisation (it officially became a civilian service in 1986, when it was renamed EYP (National Intelligence Service).4

IDEA – a secret group of right-wing army officers

Going further back, both KYP and the colonels’ dictatorship also have strong connections to a secret group of right-wing army officers that was formed in October 1944, just after the end of Greece’s occupation. During and after the second world war, political tensions led to a proliferation of secret military associations, supporting the interests of different factions. The most influential of these societies was IDEA – whose initials stand in Greek for ‘Holy Bond of Greek Officers’. The group was formed following a series of leftist mutinies in the Greek armed forces in the Middle East during the war, and its overriding aim was to see off the threat of communism.

IDEA is described by two respected historians of Greece as “ultra right-wing”5. A CIA report from 1948 concluded that the group “will support or even bring about a dictatorial form of government” should Greece’s political situation “reach an impasse” – and indeed, it unsuccessfully attempted to effect a military coup in 1951. By this point, IDEA was believed to have up to 2,000 officers in key positions. A different CIA report, from 1956, described the group as an “off-stage influence of great importance in Greek political life”, focused on “making the armed forces a bulwark of conservative strength”.

In terms of both people and principles, there were strong connections between IDEA and KYP. The 1956 CIA briefing says IDEA controlled “many of the top posts” both in the country’s military hierarchy and the intelligence service. And Apostolides writes that “many” KYP employees belonged to IDEA, pointing out that the first KYP director – Colonel and later General Alexandros Natsinas – was also “a key member” of the secret right-wing group. So the shared heritage, personnel and political outlook between IDEA, KYP, and the colonels’ dictatorship is clear.

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Argyrios Mardas and IDEA

The plausible outline of Alexis Mardas’ father that has so far emerged – right-wing politics, a military background and involvement in secret activity – aligns with the suggestion that he worked for KYP. Given this, it’s striking that one of the key original members of IDEA had the same name as he did.

During Greece’s occupation, an array of resistance and paramilitary organisations were formed with varying political stances – including a nationalist group called Triaina (Trident). One of the members of Triaina’s steering committee was named Mardas – and his first name is given as Argyrios, the more formal version of the name Argyris. When IDEA was created at the end of the occupation, its leadership contained several former members of Triaina – including the same Argyrios Mardas.

Magda Fytili, who led a recent University of Athens research project on Greek resistance organisations, tells me that IDEA was formed from Triaina and a monarchist group called ENA (Young Officers' Union). Both organisations “considered it necessary to rally nationalist officers, to effectively counter the danger of communism”, she explains.

A CIA report from 1947 lists the original administrative committee of IDEA – including Argyrios Mardas, named as an artillery captain with responsibility for “directing the section dealing with political contacts and acquisition of informants”. A separate CIA briefing the following year names captain Argyrios Mardas among the “principal personalities having a hand in the direction of IDEA”.

Was this Argyrios Mardas the same person as Alexis’ father, Argyris Mardas? The slight difference in the spelling of the name shouldn’t deter us from drawing this conclusion. In Greece, Argyris (Αργύρης) and Argyrios (Αργύριος) are in effect the same name. ‘Argyrios’ is the official form, while ‘Argyris’ is the more informal version used on an everyday basis. And it’s not unusual for a person with this name to use both versions in different situations.

So can we be more specific about what Alexis Mardas’ father did that was believed to be “something to do with the military”? The nature of secret organisations makes it difficult to be certain. But in my view, the known role of Argyrios Mardas within IDEA certainly adds more weight to the claim that Argyris Mardas worked for KYP.

Read more:

Lord Goodman: Lawyer to the Beatles - and the prime minister
The intriguing inner circle of Alexis Mardas
Where was the Greek island the Beatles wanted? The evidence

Read more:

Lord Goodman: Lawyer to the Beatles - and the prime minister
The intriguing inner circle of Alexis Mardas
Where was the Greek island the Beatles wanted? The evidence

In summer 1967, a young reporter for the Athens-based newspaper To Vima was tasked by his editor with tracking down the Beatles, who were believed to be in Greece.

The journalist, Labis Tsirigotakis, has since had a decades-long career as a London-based correspondent for his country’s state broadcaster, ERT. In the first chapter of his memoirs (published in Greek last year1), Tsirigotakis looks back at the Beatles’ visit to Greece and his reporting on it. His intriguing account of how he managed to locate the group’s base in Athens, and then kept up to date with their later movements, also sheds new light on several aspects of this topic – as I discuss below.

1.     The Mardas family

Tsirigotakis’ breakthrough came when a contact told him that two Beatles had been spotted at an exclusive seaside apartment in Athens, booked in the name of Mardas.

After receiving this “golden information”, Tsirigotakis immediately looked up the surname in the phone book. The first entry was one Argyris Mardas – who the journalist describes as a retired air force officer with an address in Athens’ Papagou neighbourhood. Upon calling this number and being surprised to hear the English greeting “hello”, Tsirigotakis felt he could be on to something. So he asked to speak to Paul McCartney, while giving his own name as the Beatles’ manager Brian Epstein.

The fact that there was a pause before he received a negative answer strengthened his suspicions – and in an hour’s time the reporter was outside the house with a photojournalist. According to his memoirs, Tsirigotakis then hid in the garden with To Vima’s photographer until they saw Paul McCartney going for a stroll, apparently under the influence of LSD.

After striking up a conversation, the reporter was told by McCartney “that he was being hosted by Alexis Mardas and that he loved Greece a lot”, he writes. It was through this exchange, says Tsirigotakis, that he knew about the Beatles’ trip to Arachova and Delphi the next day – which he was then able to report on for To Vima.

Tsirigotakis doesn’t write much else about either Alexis or Argyris Mardas (which was the name of Alexis’ father). But his account highlights the role of the Mardas family in the Beatles’ visit.

2.     Three possible islands

Tsirigotakis says he was told by John Lennon during the Beatles’ day trip to Arachova and Delphi (which was on Sunday 23 July) that the group had selected three islands that they were due to visit – though the Beatle couldn’t remember their names.

“From my own reporting,” Tsirigotakis adds, “I later learned that these three Greek islands were Agia Triada opposite Eretria, the Lichadonisia in north Evia, and Tsougria opposite Skiathos.”

In my research on this subject, I had narrowed down the range of islands that the Beatles may have been interested in to three possible locations. So I was reassured to see that Tsirigotakis names the same three.

3.     But which one?

Tsirigotakis writes that the Beatles visited these islands by yacht two days later, “and their choice was the island of Tsougria”.

For me, this raises some questions. As I wrote recently for the Beatles historian Erin Torkelson Weber’s blog, I think there’s also a strong case for the Lichadonisia islands as the main focus of the group’s interest. While the issue gets quite complicated, here are two key reasons.

Firstly, Tsougria is about 290 acres big. This contrasts with numerous accounts from Beatles insiders, which describe the group being interested in a much smaller island – often said to have been about 80 acres big, and next to several even smaller islands. That description, which crops up in several accounts with minor variations, is a much closer match to the Lichadonisia than to Tsougria.

Secondly, a different Greek newspaper, Makedonia, reported on 29 July 1967 that while the Beatles were interested in Tsougria, this potential sale was blocked by the Greek government while they were still in Greece (the article includes a comment from Paul McCartney to this effect). But archive documents, as well as accounts from various Beatles insiders, suggest that negotiations over the purchase went on until several months after the group got back.

While Tsougria is frequently named as the Beatles’ chosen Greek island, I’ve never seen convincing explanations for how that is consistent with the points discussed above.

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4.      Official tourism involvement

I discussed in an article for the Journal of Beatles Studies last year how numerous references – such as “tourist people”, “tourist board”, or “tourism organisation” – in relation to the Beatles’ visit indicated the likely involvement of Greece’s National Tourist Office (abbreviated to EOT in Greek). Tsirigotakis’ account leaves even less room for doubt about this. He specifically states that the EOT, and its press director Nikos Katsaros, were involved with the Beatles’ day trip on 23 July. The journalist recalls that, as he followed the Beatles’ party with two photo-reporters:

“We played stealth warfare with the EOT’s press director Nikos Katsaros, who had ordered the gendarmerie to keep us far from the Beatles so that the EOT could have exclusive photographic material to use for the international promotion of Greece.”

This further evidence of the EOT’s involvement underlines how surprising it is that the Beatles’ trip apparently received official support at a time when Greece was run by a repressive military dictatorship, which disliked rock music and hippies.

5.     Lennon’s state of mind

Some have suggested that the Beatles must have been politically detached to have visited Greece at this time. But from what Tsirigotakis writes, John Lennon at least appears to have been passionate about political topics. The journalist spoke to John when the group’s entourage stopped for to relax next to a lake en route to Arachova. He spotted the Beatle reading a book by Orwell, separate from the rest of the party and apparently “living in his own world”. Though he appeared to be “a man genuinely troubled”, Lennon had a “kind smile” on his face, writes Tsirigotakis.

The reporter realised from the conversation that “the world’s social inequalities” were bothering Lennon. He quotes the Beatle saying that in England, these were so large that they had “wounded me psychologically”. Lennon also reportedly railed against the “inhuman crimes” being carried out by American soldiers in Vietnam, commenting: “All of us must rise up against the war in Vietnam, in whatever way we can.”

According to Tsirigotakis’ account, John said that the situation in Britain had prompted him to consider living “in another country, in a more humane social environment”. This sentiment seems to have been deeply felt – though it’s highly debatable whether Greece at the time would have met Lennon’s criteria.

6.     Julian’s present

In his book, Tsirigotakis gives a detailed account of his reporting on the Beatles’ activity while they were on the Greek mainland. The book itself doesn’t say much about the group’s later cruise around islands, though this is covered in detail in the reporter’s articles for To Vima at the time. I assume that Tsirigotakis wasn’t on the yacht with the Beatles himself – and yet he was able to write a series of near-daily reports about the journey, mentioning specific events and locations. So whatever sources he was relying on for that reporting seem to have been pretty well informed.

There is one puzzling aspect of those reports, however. Tsirigotakis twice refers to a birthday celebration for John Lennon’s son Julian - the party reportedly took place on 24 July 1967 while the Beatles were in Greece. However, Julian’s birthday is actually on 8 April. This confusion doesn’t seem to be limited to To Vima. In one article, Tsirigotakis refers to a renovated gypsy caravan which Lennon was giving to Julian for his birthday. Lennon did indeed make such a gift to his son – and it arrived at the family’s home in Surrey while they were in Greece (as was reported in the British media at the time). So perhaps for some reason, Julian did indeed have a belated birthday celebration at that time.

While I have asked Labis Tsirigotakis (who kindly gave me a copy of his book) if he can help clarify this, so far I haven’t managed to get to the bottom of the issue. So the explanation for this apparent anomaly - and for how Tsirigotakis learned the movements of the Beatles’ cruise - remains unclear.

Read more:

Lord Goodman: Lawyer to the Beatles - and the prime minister
'Alex said they could pay less tax in Greece’
Where was the Greek island the Beatles wanted? The evidence

Read more:

Where was the Greek island the Beatles wanted?
The intriguing inner circle of Alexis Mardas
From London’s summer of love to Greece’s military dictatorship

While writing about the Beatles’ plans to buy a Greek island, I’ve often found that seeking an answer to an apparently simple question – where the island was – quickly leads to a deeper exploration of the politics and society of the 1960s.

That’s certainly been the case with the letter from the Beatles’ lawyers requesting permission to obtain the currency to buy the island. The document is held in the UK’s National Archives, and includes the puzzling name for the place the group wanted: “Aegos in Konstadinos”.

The letter - required because of the rules concerning overseas investments at the time - was written by a firm of solicitors called Goodman, Derrick and Co. While that name may not ring many bells these days, it would have done in 1960s Britain. Because one of the firm’s senior partners was Lord Arnold Goodman – a man described by his biographer as “the fixer for the British establishment”.

Despite never being a minister, Lord Goodman was highly influential within British politics in the 1960s and beyond. As well as being a confidant to prime minister Harold Wilson, he chaired organisations including the Arts Council of Great Britain, the Observer newspaper’s editorial trust, and numerous other boards and public bodies. In such positions and as a talented lawyer and negotiator, he was often called on to tackle prominent problems in areas ranging from the media, to culture, and foreign affairs. His role in public life is well conveyed by the title to his own memoirs: “Tell them I’m on my way”.

Goodman’s national profile first began to emerge in 1957, when he helped three Labour MPs win a libel case against the Spectator magazine – which had suggested they had been drunk at an International Socialist Congress in Italy. More political work soon followed, including for Labour’s then leader Hugh Gaitskell. Goodman began working for Harold Wilson when he replaced Gaitskell as leader after the latter’s death in 1963. And when Wilson became prime minister following the 1964 general election, the solicitor was soon at the “very heart” of politics - in the words of his biographer, Brian Brivati1.

In his memoirs, Goodman recalls being “a frequent visitor to Downing Street”, attending at least once a fortnight “throughout the whole period of Harold Wilson’s first premiership”, which lasted from 1964 until 1970.

“These meetings were largely an opportunity for Harold Wilson to use me as the wall of a fives court against which he banged the ball,” recalled Goodman. “Sitting in the Cabinet room at Downing Street, with the Prime Minister taking me into his confidence was an exhilarating experience from first to last.”

Goodman found the late evening discussions, which often lasted for hours “until midnight or past”, “immensely interesting because Wilson would talk to me about his problems and their supposed solutions, and seemingly consult me on the matter”.

Goodman writes that through his “politico-legal activities”, he “rapidly acquired the confidence of the leadership of the Labour Party”, adding: “Through my office door there flowed an increasing number of Labour politicians seeking professional and personal advice on a score of topics.”

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Powers of persuasion

His access to Wilson made Goodman, according to an obituary in The Independent by the publisher Anthony Blond, “more influential than any cabinet minister”. He was made a peer in 1965 and in the subsequent years became “the totem and oracle for the great and the good”, with roles overseeing an array of quangos and public bodies. When in 1976 Goodman became Master of University College, Oxford, “he held 19 chairmanships of public significance and many more private, from race tracks to childhood trusts”, writes Blond.

One of Goodman’s most significant roles was chair of the Arts Council of Great Britain, which he was appointed to in 1965. In the ten following years, his “presence was also felt” at various other arts organisations, as well as the Housing Corporation, the British Council, the Observer Trust, and “numerous committees of inquiry”, writes Brivati2.

Goodman’s keen intellect is well-attested, but his personal qualities were equally crucial to his influence. Blond describes him as “the greatest negotiator of the age”, while Brivati3 writes that Goodman “had charm, he was witty, and he could frequently persuade people to do what he or his clients wanted”.

He also had a tougher side, according to Brivati, who writes that Goodman proved useful to many through his “power to intimidate journalists”. One example of this was in 1964, when Goodman helped gain an apology from the Daily Mirror and a settlement of £40,000 for the Conservative peer Lord Boothby over scandalous media reports involving connections to the criminal underworld – despite there being photographic evidence. Goodman’s intervention, says his biographer, indicates how “proprietors would do deals over the heads of editors when Goodman was involved”4.

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Connection to the Beatles’ island plans

Goodman’s range of distinguished clients included the Beatles. In his memoirs, he recalls advising Lennon and McCartney on the 1965 flotation of Northern Songs. And “some years later”, Goodman writes, he “became involved in sorting out various tax affairs on the Beatles’ behalf”, and “was also asked to advise them in relation to possible investments”. The latter included a machine which could transcribe songs into musical notation – which Goodman recalls “very strongly” urging the group against.

It isn’t clear whether Goodman had any direct involvement in the planned island purchase. His law firm wrote the letter to the Bank of England on the Beatles’ behalf, applying for permission to buy currency to purchase an island. But the document is simply signed in the firm’s name of “Goodman Derrick” rather than by a named individual (and we know that other lawyers at the practice also worked on matters to do with the Beatles). So, it’s not clear whether Goodman had any personal involvement in this particular issue. But given his work on other aspects of the Beatles’ affairs, it seems likely to me that Goodman would at least have known about the group’s island plans and his firm’s role in them.

If this was the case, then Lord Goodman is one more politically significant figure in Britain with knowledge of the Beatles’ Greece plans as they were progressing. (The others include a very senior civil servant as well as a senior government minister.)

In July 1967, policy towards Greece presented a high-profile dilemma for Harold Wilson’s government, which was being pulled in different directions by moral outrage at the Greek junta and the pragmatic demands of cold war geopolitics. The issue was discussed at cabinet and by civil servants. And it seems plausible, if not likely, that it may have come up in the prime minister’s long, late evening chats with Goodman. (Even if it didn’t, Lord Goodman took an interest both in foreign affairs and the media, so would presumably have been aware of the Greece situation.)

Today, we are familiar with the idea that what celebrities say and do can have an influence on politics. In the sixties, the power of celebrity wasn’t yet so deeply ingrained in society. But the Beatles’ Greek island plans did have the potential to have an influence on UK public opinion about Greece, and therefore on British politics. As I wrote previously, if faced with a similar situation today, it seems likely that a British government would consider the ‘optics’ of whatever decision it made.

It’s difficult to assess to what extent the people in British politics who were aware of the Beatles’ island plans at the time may have considered the political dimensions of them. The involvement of Arnold Goodman’s law firm adds a further complication to that question.

Read more:

Where was the Greek island the Beatles wanted?
The intriguing inner circle of Alexis Mardas
From London’s summer of love to Greece’s military dictatorship