Joe and Nelly — heated debate, studio lights buzzing
Nelly:
You honestly believe Paul McCartney was replaced by some Bond-meets–Austin Powers doppelgänger with a scalpel and a tuxedo?
Joe:
Believe? I observe. Mid-60s, boom — jawline sharper, confidence dialed to eleven, suddenly he’s flirting like a secret agent. Paul becomes… Faul. Very convenient.
Nelly:
Or — wild thought — he just grew up, got rich, and discovered cheekbones.
Joe:
Cheekbones don’t explain the accent drift, the posture, the eyebrow work. That’s not Liverpool, that’s MI6 with a guitar.
Nelly:
Oh please. If MI6 could write “Hey Jude,” the world would be a very different place.
Joe:
I’m not saying he wrote it badly. I’m saying the new guy would do nicely in his gob.
Nelly:
Joe—!
Joe:
I mean it British-style. Gob. Mouth. Stick the old narrative right in there and tell it to shut up.
Nelly:
You realize “gob” makes it sound like you’re starting a pub fight in Manchester.
Joe:
Exactly. This theory lives in a pub, not a university. Pint on the table, conspiracy on the wall.
Nelly:
So now he’s James Bond and Austin Powers?
Joe:
Bond’s confidence, Austin’s absurdity, Beatles’ harmonies. That’s the formula. Plastic surgery just polished the cover.
Nelly:
Joe, the Beatles didn’t need a body swap. They had talent, timing, and screaming teenagers.
Joe:
And propaganda budgets.
Nelly:
You’re impossible.
Joe:
And yet… every time you watch late-era Paul, you squint.
Nelly:
I squint because you’ve poisoned my brain.
Joe:
See? Faul already did nicely in your gob. 🎤
Nelly:
Shut your gob, Joe.
