John Lennon was a very sweet but often depressed man. I sat next to him at a lunch at Foyle’s to launch his book of rhymes and doodles, In His Own Write. He was paralysed with fright at having to stand up to speak. When it became clear he wasn’t going to, a horrid bully of a man stood up and said how disgracefully rude and insulting it was of Lennon not to deliver a speech. I clutched John’s shaking hand. He was close to tears.