Well, not so much hate but just weary. I grew up in Liverpool when the Beatles were rising. They were everywhere: you couldn't escape the records, the photos, the books, the magazines, the articles, the cardboard cut outs, just about bloody everything. Guys in silly suits with sillier haircuts - all manufactured, designed to appeal to the record buying teenagers. Jolly tunes but the words were hardly significant to say the least. OK for screaming girls but proper men - like we aspired to be - were more into Kid Ory and Big Bill Broonzy at that time: these were men who been it, seen it and they could play not just plank slap. I'm sorry John Lennon was cut off before his time as he was developing into something worth listening to. Paul MacCarney is desperate to be taken seriously as an artist - witness the symphonies, the poems, the photographs, the paintings (I think)- but he just wrote some jolly tunes long ago and won't accept it until he has the Nobel Prize for something. He's humourless too if you read Private Eye.