Now I’m not one for superstition, hocus pocus, flights of fancy (don’t mind them actually), or indeed…mumbo, or jumbo. But, a year ago, a little budhist monk gave me a “lucky bracelet” that I’ve been wearing “religiously” (oh, the irony) ever since. You know….just in case. Now here’s the thing…I’ve been having a bit of a shit year…(apart from all the fabulous holidays of course…and I did win a tenner on the lottery)…and just the other night, I looked down at my “lucky bracelet” and thought “what a load of shite”….and took it off.
And then….last night….I TOTALLY PARTIED WITH KEITH F*CKING RICHARDS, RONNIE F*CKING WOOD, ANITA BLOODY PALLENBERG, ETC ETC ETC ETC!
I’m not even bullshitting you. Shall I begin?
So…it’s 4.30pm and I’ve resigned myself to the fact that I’m not going to the Rolling Stones premiere of Crossfire Hurricane. No worries…I’ve booked fancy ass seats at the Islington Vue and me and my buddy are gonna head down there and enjoy the show anyway.
The phonecall I’ve been waiting for arrives….you shall go to the ball! Just get your arse down there….like….now….and pick up your tickets.
40 minutes later, me and Rod (who can’t quite believe the news) hit Leicester Square, all bushy eyed and brightly tailed.
“it’s alright mate…we’ve got time for a quick drink, the Stones won’t turn up until just before the show…we’ll wait for that and then hit the red carpet at the same time.”
*SCREAMS – FLASHING LIGHTS*
“oh…they’ve arrived then. My bad.”
Figuring we’d pretty much missed our opportunity for a hob nob, we hit the pub for a couple of liveners before the big event and then did the whole red carpet thing. Please see attached, my “award winning” photographs of Rod….a man who needs to realise it takes my camera at least 5 seconds to take a photo and should really hold his bloody pose!
hold the pose! Too late…
So…we get in, find our seats, order too many beers and settle in.
It’s all very whoop de doo….oh look, there’s Liam Gallagher talking about pinching Keith Richards bum. Oh…there’s Jerry Hall, being mental. All that jazz…and then (after we’re made to sit through two Amex adverts…pff), The Stones arrive! Please see another one of my “that’s a printer!” photographs, below. You’ll notice I’m not the only one who fancied a quick snap.
Keef! Keef! Over here! Over here!
I’d like to tell you what Mick said….he spoke for about 5 minutes, but I was too horrified by his f*cking stupid trainers to pay much attention.
No! Mick! No!
Anyway….Mick’s ridiculous footwear aside (reminds me of the time I chased him up a flight of stairs only to discover that he was wearing a pink sweater round his neck…but that’s another story), it was all a rather good wheeze….and I figured that was that.
We watched the documentary….which was proper BO! I don’t know where they found it…but it’s stuffed full of vintage, unseen footage of them in their prime and brilliantly edited. Don’t f*ck about…go and see it. It does rather gloss over the last 20 odd years of their career…but then again, nothing much of interest has happened in that time, so it’s no biggy. It’s not a standard documentary either…I won’t spoil it for you…but it’s a bit cleverer than that.
Anyhoo…after a most enjoyable hour and half, we exit the premiere. It is at this point that I realise I don’t know where the after-party actually is. It sounds posh….hency why I have no idea where it is. It is suggested that I look up the address on my “smartphone”…..trouble is, my smartphone stopped being very smart quite some time ago and now it barely accepts a phonecall, let alone “surf the net”. Apparently it’s me that’s the idiot and not my phone…but I beg to differ.
So…using my wits, I decide we should follow the expensive looking people. Unfortunately for us, the expensive looking people we decide to follow are so expensive (princesses apparently) that they “don’t do walking” and decide to f*ck off back to their castle instead of face the humiliation of walking through central London. I shit you not.
All is not lost though…we befriend a journalist from the Sydney Herald (Hi Ed!), who clearly knows London better than me and informs me that Quaglinos (http://www.quaglinos-restaurant.co.uk/) is “right next to The Ritz”.
Upon arrival, we discover that it’s not going to be one of those shit drink receptions. This is almost spoiled by Anthea Turner being the only sleb we can see….but we don’t let it get our spirits down….this is a very plush pad.
Free bubbly in hand, we decide to work the room.
Oh look..an ice sculpture!
Oh look…hot totty!
Oh….FUCK ME UP THE ARSE….KEITH FUCKING RICHARDS!
*I might have let out a little bit of wee at this point*
As Jimi is my witness….sat on a sofa, surrounded by A-listers and family was Keef….no VIP area….no roped off zone…just a couple of serious looking dudes keeping an eye on proceedings.
(I should mention now that I have absolutely no photgraphic evidence of the party because every time I tried to get my bleeding camera out, a really big scary man pointed at me)
Luckily for you…there were plenty of official photographers on hand to snap events for me….here’s one of me just out of shot.
I’m just to the left…you can’t see me…but I’m there goddamit!
So…where was I? Oh yes….at first we were kinda hanging back. Just catching a glimpse…expecting to be moved on at any moment. But after a while, it became fairly evident that it was ok to hang around like a bad smell. Nobody was moving anybody anywhere…the simple fact of the matter was….most of the guests didn’t know Keef was there. So…we figured it couldn’t hurt to get a little closer to the action.
And this is how me and Rod….two of the biggest Stones fans around…ended up spending the whole night at Keefs table! Did you get that? The whole night…..at KEEFS TABLE! I know I’m almost 40…but this shit just makes me want to squeek.
Obviously we played it cool….you know….men of world….meant to be there…
What we actually did was neck as many cocktails as possible and pinch ourselves repeatedly.
And then Ronnie turns up….with his very hot girlfriend. Yippee!
He’s in fine form…still off the booze…running around cuddling everybody. Next thing you know…he’s only bloody talking to us. Well…to be fair, he was talking to the journalist from the Sydney Herald….but we were stood right next to him….so that counts!
As the night rolls on….oh look, there’s Anita Pallenberg getting all cosy on the couch….there’s Jade Jagger…there’s that little bloke from the Stereophonics….etc etc. Really quite the little corner we had going on. And still nobody moved us on. Briliant!
It was very surreal….almost like I was watching it on telly.
Anyway…after a couple of hours, Keef decides it’s time to leave. It is at this point that the most miraculous thing occurs.
Me and Rod are standing about 4 feet away from him as he exits his table….gawping basically….Keef stands up scans the room. His eyes stop at us…he looks us right in the eye….points and does his famous “death throes” laugh!
He’s pointing and laughing! At us! And not in a shit way. In a good way.
And that, my friends…is why I’m never wearing that stupid f*cking lucky Buddhist wristband ever again….