I realize that what I’m about to say could have very easily been a trending story in 1965 (if they’d had blogs or, indeed, embraced the concept of “trending” back then), but I soldier on regardless: Amid all the commotion about the casting for Sam Mendes’s upcoming Beatles biopic, I worry that the most serious and least vapid issue of all—which Beatle was the hottest?—is getting lost. Yes, this is definitely something Mad Men’s Sally Draper and her friends could have argued about six decades ago, but what can I say? Crush-worthiness is eternal.
Of course, there’s a valid case to be made for each individual Beatle. George Harrison was probably the most empirically handsome (and arguably the best dressed); John Lennon was ephemerally sexy in a way I can’t really define (although I did recently learn he was kind of ripped, albeit in a skinny-Englishman way? Maybe that’s how he pulled Yoko Ono…); and Paul McCartney had that sweet moon face and big doe eyes. But there’s really only one Beatle that makes my tragic bisexual heart skip a beat, and it’s Ringo Starr. Was he traditionally attractive? No. Was he as symmetrically featured as his bandmates? No. But was he in possession of what the kids today might call undeniable, inexplicable rizz? Absolutely.
As someone who spent the entirety of 2017 desperately chasing a vaguely mean pop-punk drummer who had absolutely no interest in me, I have to admit that some of my passion for Ringo may lie in his choice of instrument. What can I say? There’s just something hot about a man, woman, or they/them who can pound the drums with precision and skill and provide a constant, stable, rhythmic beat for their fellow band members’ somewhat more theatrical, look-at-me musical skills. (No less an authority than r/RandomThoughts agrees with me, by the way, according to a post titled “the hottest instrument someone can play is the drums.”) Maybe some people thrive on competition, but I, personally, like discovering a gem hidden in somewhat plain sight—say, behind a drum set.
But perhaps the greatest piece of evidence I can marshal in my quest to make Ringo Starr more widely accepted as the hottest Beatle is the fact that none but short and undeniably sensual Irish king Barry Keoghan will be playing him in Mendes’s upcoming film, according to Starr. Much like Starr, Keoghan is nontraditionally cute, but wouldn’t you rather kiss someone with a memorable face than a generically handsome Ken doll? (I think my chances of kissing either Keoghan or a now-84-year-old-but-still-hot Starr are slim to none, but it’s always good to mull over one’s options, just in case.)
At the ripe, old age of 31, I’m no blushing teenage Beatlemaniac anymore, but I have to admit that longevity is becoming increasingly appealing to me, and that’s a quality that Starr has in spades. He released two EPs in 2024 (while my ultimate crush Rihanna released none, much to my chagrin), and I genuinely find his continued musical output and passion for his craft more attractive than any piercing gaze or rippling set of abdominal muscles ever could be.
Do I still want to be working into my 80s? Not particularly—but then again, I’m not an internationally famous musician (and I’m pretty sure the quality of my blogs would decline steeply if I were still typing them out as an octogenarian). What will persist into my old age, though—unless my tastes somehow change radically without my approval—is my conviction that, with all due respect to his wife of several decades, Barbara Bach, Ringo is now, and will forever be, the most kissable Beatle of them all.
