I just found out that John Lennon, who was shot dead outside of his Manhattan apartment in 1980, would have celebrated his 70th birthday at the weekend. Lennon was an icon from my youth who had a huge influence on popular culture during my teenage years, first as a member of the Beatles, and then as a rock star in his own right.
He was only 40 years old when so cruelly shot while walking with his wife, Yoko Ono. It is therefore difficult to imagine him as an elderly man. I still see him with his long black hair and round tinted glasses making a peace sign. It therefore comes as quite a shock to realise how time flies. The older I get, the more frequently I experience this sensation.
It was as if it were yesterday that I heard the shocking news of his assassination. Your grandma Veronica and I were on a trip to China. Her father, your great grandfather Alan Kennard, told us about a travel trade mission to Hong Kong, Beijing and Chengde onto which we somehow managed to wangle our way. It included an amazing train journey from Beijing to this isolated city where people had never seen westerners before and gawked at us with fascination. On this journey we shared a compartment with two British travel writers, Roger Bray of the London Evening Standard and Arthur Sandals of the Financial Times. We got to know them well.
Being a journalist, Arthur was a news freak and carried a short wave radio with him, which was the only way to listen to the BBC World Service in those days. He would summarise the news of the day and read his own new bulletins to the group during lunch and dinner. We were sitting on his table, and before he stood up to read to deliver this particular bulletin, he rather tantalisingly told your grandmother and I that he had a big news story, but refused to tell us what it was.
With his well-rounded BBC voice, he stood up and delivered the breathtaking news that John Lennon had been fatally shot outside of the Dakota building, just a block away from Central Park West where he lived. We were all absolutely dumbfounded. Arthur truly had what in journalistic parlance is called a ‘scoop’, which is an exclusive story. No one in China had any idea about John Lennon and the Beatles. So, had it been for Arthur’s diligent reporting, we probably wouldn’t have found out until our return to home.
Tragically, Arthur died the following year in a skiing accident. He was a passionate skier, so at least ended his life, albeit far too early, doing what he loved. Whenever I hear John Lennon’s wonderful song, Imagine – which became the anthem in commemoration of his death – I always think fondly of Arthur Sandals.
Tonight I leave for a long trip Sumatra. No doubt, I will be humming the tune of Imagine while on my flight, thinking of John Lennon and Arthur Sandals. May they both rest in peace.
Grandpa Jonathan
Prague, Czech Republic
