My petition to re-release the novelization based on this film

I notice that it refers to the novel published by Pan books (England), credited to "John Burke". In the US, Dell published A Hard Day's Night novel, also credited to "John Burke", that was a completely DIFFERENT version! There's a website that posts the complete book here (watch out for the ads):

http://lovelyrita_1967.tripod.com/hardday.html

Here's a sample of the beginning of the story:

The Beatles were in the middle of a yelling, laughing, rough-and-tumble soccer match in the living room of their hotel suite when the door to the corridor burst open unexpectedly. George had just gotten the ball from Paul and sent it caroming off Ringo’s nose in John’s direction. John had his foot drawn back for the kick before he spotted Norm, their stocky, much-harassed road manager, standing in the doorway, staring at them with startled eyes.

By then John’s leg had too much forward momentum to stop the kick. The toe of his shoe connected with the spinning ball and sent it flying away across the room. It bounced off the wall, knocked over a lamp, and thudded into Norm’s stomach. Norm gasped and grabbed his middle with both hands as the ball bounded away from him, shot through the air, and out the open window.

The Beatles rushed to the window, looked out, and watched their ball dribbling away up the street. As one man, all four of them turned around and fastened accusing eyes on Norm.

“Now why’d you do that?” John asked in an injured tone.

“Why did I...” Norm straightened slowly, his scowl going from John to Paul to George to Ringo. And then back to John. “Are you daft? Bashing a ball about in a quiet, respectable hotel like...”

John draped an affectionate arm around the road manager’s shoulders. “Just letting off steam, you ruddy sot. Got to let off steam once in a while, or we’ll all end up as twitchy as you are.”

Norm had long ago become impervious to such taunting. The Beatles were always needling others or deflating themselves. It was hard to get angry at them when they took themselves no more seriously than they took anyone else. Norm had learned how to give them back as good as he got, most of the time.

“Letting off steam?” he snorted. “Seems like you swine do enough of that on stage and beating off the girls.”

Actually, Norm did understand how much they needed to let off steam from time to time. They’d put in a hard day today, with a long, strenuous theater performance that afternoon. Now, after only a couple hour’s rest, they had to rush to catch the evening train out so they’d be on time for the rehearsal and performance at the TV studio next day.

By the time the train got them to their destination it would be night. Time to hop into bed and catch some much-needed sleep before they hurried to the studio. The boys were young and strong, and enjoying it all so much they didn’t show the wear and tear. But of course they did need to unwind a little in the midst of all this rushing about.

It had been a fantastic, high-pressure life ever since the Beatles had suddenly skyrocketed up out of nowhere to become the hottest sensation in show business. The Beatles’ hometown of Liverpool had been first to go mad for their wild, driving beat and the young, fun-loving energy they hurled into their music-making. Audiences became enflamed by the Beatles’ slam-bang enjoyment of their own performances, bringing them up out of their seats screeching with the thrill of it all. The madness had spread like wildfire to the rest of England and leaped across the Channel to the Continent. In Paris the fans had practically torn a theater apart in their frenzied ecstasy during one Beatle performance. In Sweden, mobs of girls had pursued them everywhere, screaming themselves hoarse and fainting all over the place.

And when they’d hit America they’d found themselves greeted every place they went by hordes of adoring, shrieking fans wearing Beatle wigs, Beatle badges and Beatle sweaters. By the time they’d finished that first wild swing through the United States, the Beatles were the most-wanted act for television, a sure sellout in any theater, and the top six records on every hit list were all Beatle numbers.

It seemed suddenly that everyone, male and female, from Hollywood stars to European nobility, was getting a Beatle haircut. All the world was caught up in the exuberant joy of “Beatlemania.”

For the Beatles and their road manager it had continued that way ever since. Go-go-go—every day and night of the week. And on top of the unremitting pressure of having to get to one engagement after another without letup, what made Norm’s job even more nerve-wracking was the nature of the boys themselves. They were a swinging bunch of cutups, constantly plummeting in and out of trouble, utterly irrepressible. You never knew what they were going to do—or say.

Like the time a reporter had asked Ringo if he had any enemies. “Well,” Ringo had replied with that sad look of his, “I do hate Donald Duck.”

The reporter’s eyebrows had shot up. “Why on earth would you hate Donald Duck?”

Ringo had looked at him like the reporter must be a moron not to know why. But he’d explained patiently: “Because Donald Duck hates me, of course.”

Norm expected this to be another unnerving, unpredictable twenty-four hours like all those others. What he didn’t foresee was that the hours ahead were destined to become more hectic than usual—even for the Beatles.

“Come on, you monsters,” Norm told them, “let’s get a shove on. If we miss that train, we’ll never get to the TV studio in time for the big performance. Think of all the weeping and wailing and smashing of telly sets all over the nation if that happened!”

The boys were all dishevelled from their soccer match. But only Paul paused to check his appearance in the wall mirror, straightening his tie and combing the muss out of his hair. He was the neat one. He was also the one that most of the stories about the Beatles called the best-looking one. But Paul never paid much attention to that sort of guff.

As a matter of fact, it was Ringo Starr who had gotten mobbed the most by the girl fans during their tumultuous American tour. And nobody would ever call Ringo handsome. He was the shortest Beatle, with a great wedge of a nose and a mournful expression, except when he’d suddenly cut loose with one of his explosions of kookiness. Maybe it was Ringo’s moody unwanted-child expression that made all those feminine hearts flutter so.

Whatever it was, Paul knew that for Ringo, as for himself, any real relationship with a girl had been a lot easier before they became famous. Back in the days when he’d been just plain Paul McCartney, a relatively unknown guitar player, he was always able to tell when a girl cared for him. But now it was hard to be sure if a girl really liked him, for himself or only because he was one of the Beatles.

“Come on, gorgeous,” John growled, “before you melt the mirror.”

Paul spun away from the mirror and saluted John smartly. “Coming, exalted leader of us all!”

The four boys draped their arms around each others’ shoulders and surged through the doorway, out into the wide hotel corridor, John dragging them all onward toward the elevators.

There was actually no real “leader” of the group, all of them being equal. But John Lennon was often referred to as “the chief Beatle.” That was because he’d started the group, and wrote its songs, together with Paul. Also he had a tendency to take command in times of crisis. John himself sometimes regarded this as a weakness. His other weakness was his hasty temper. But he was never able to stay angry at any of the other Beatles for very long. He was too fond of them. And when they were all together, sallying forth to face the challenge of another performance, John felt like he was on top of the world.

George Harrison, marching beside John, was also feeling very good then. He was the youngest Beatle, a bit shy with strangers, who liked to get off by himself at times. But he was full of fun when he was with the group like this. Being one of them was important to him. It helped him shed his inhibitions and gave him a feeling of belonging. They were like the Four Musketeers—one for all and all for one.

This happy feeling welled up inside George and he broke into one of their hits: “Can’t Buy Me Love.”

The other three caught the spirit and joined him in song. But not the same song. Oh, no.

Paul launched into “Twist and Shout.”

John let go with “I Wanna Hold Your Hand.”

And Ringo began singing “She Loves You—Yeah, Yeah, Yeah!”

All at the same time. At the top of their lungs. The noise was earshattering...