Keith Richards is a medical marvel and his immune system should for the benefit of mankind be on display at the British Museum as testament to a life thoroughly endured. From there a world wide tour must commence starting at the Smithsonian in Washington DC and cross the finish line in Paris at the Academie Des Sciences. Tickets for viewing will be restricted to two per person, smoking is permitted on the premises, however flash photography is prohibited and will be rigorously enforced (no amount of fancy photography can improve the looks of such a specimen)
After reading ‘Life’ the autobiography of broken teeth Keef Richards you fall between a feeling of repulsion and sheer wonder for such a person. This page turner of a book is packed with surprises, shattered myths and recipes for Bangers and Mash. While heavily serialized in The London Sunday Times there are gems of stories on every page. The belief that under such junkie turmoil one could actually remember such accounts of behavior would seem Herculean.
But there’s only one Keith Richards and possibly over the multitude of drug intake there was one that retained memory.
I was intrigued to find that Charlie Watts had a sharp left hook when Jagger pissed him off to great lengths and almost knocked him out of a hotel window in Amsterdam. In fact, feeling rather pleased with the outcome Charlie was itching for a repeat performance some days later. It was only when Richards pleaded with him that he reversed his decision.
The myths that follow such legends sometimes have to be finally dealt head on; such was the case with Marianne and a famous confectionary bar. This was pre Rupert Murdoch days where lies and fiction share the same bed. It was the local constabulary that fancifully constructed the idea that Britain’s favorite chocolate bar had been inserted somewhere other than an oral cavity. Indeed Miss Faithful was naked with only a rug for fabric shelter and there was a Mars Bar on the table nearby, but truth dictates it remained idle and still in its wrapper.
The fondness for drugs and the distress it caused Richards and for all those around at times is very hard to fathom. The extraordinary amount of planning one had to do to have junk at the next show in order to function was astonishing. Girlfriend swapping was almost as interchangeable as needles and yet Richards did not collect women the way Bill Wyman or Jagger did, counting and documenting as if it were a homework assignment. When Jagger received a Knighthood it was a fitting portrayal to who Jagger was; a social butterfly and in contrast, Richards would take no part in a world that some decades earlier wanted lock them up and throw away the key.
This is a most satisfactory read, however if you think that Mr. Richards has a enough money then gallop to the nearest public library where a Mandrax induced librarian will be happy to furnish you with a copy. Err… that’s if county council cutbacks haven’t already kicked in.
After reading ‘Life’ the autobiography of broken teeth Keef Richards you fall between a feeling of repulsion and sheer wonder for such a person. This page turner of a book is packed with surprises, shattered myths and recipes for Bangers and Mash. While heavily serialized in The London Sunday Times there are gems of stories on every page. The belief that under such junkie turmoil one could actually remember such accounts of behavior would seem Herculean.
But there’s only one Keith Richards and possibly over the multitude of drug intake there was one that retained memory.
I was intrigued to find that Charlie Watts had a sharp left hook when Jagger pissed him off to great lengths and almost knocked him out of a hotel window in Amsterdam. In fact, feeling rather pleased with the outcome Charlie was itching for a repeat performance some days later. It was only when Richards pleaded with him that he reversed his decision.
The myths that follow such legends sometimes have to be finally dealt head on; such was the case with Marianne and a famous confectionary bar. This was pre Rupert Murdoch days where lies and fiction share the same bed. It was the local constabulary that fancifully constructed the idea that Britain’s favorite chocolate bar had been inserted somewhere other than an oral cavity. Indeed Miss Faithful was naked with only a rug for fabric shelter and there was a Mars Bar on the table nearby, but truth dictates it remained idle and still in its wrapper.
The fondness for drugs and the distress it caused Richards and for all those around at times is very hard to fathom. The extraordinary amount of planning one had to do to have junk at the next show in order to function was astonishing. Girlfriend swapping was almost as interchangeable as needles and yet Richards did not collect women the way Bill Wyman or Jagger did, counting and documenting as if it were a homework assignment. When Jagger received a Knighthood it was a fitting portrayal to who Jagger was; a social butterfly and in contrast, Richards would take no part in a world that some decades earlier wanted lock them up and throw away the key.
This is a most satisfactory read, however if you think that Mr. Richards has a enough money then gallop to the nearest public library where a Mandrax induced librarian will be happy to furnish you with a copy. Err… that’s if county council cutbacks haven’t already kicked in.
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