“I look like a nine hundred year old Keith Richards” is my common refrain upon waking up in the morning.
I’m not trying to be cute – the sad fact is that before my first coffee I look like a freshly dug up cadaver in a wind tunnel. All hair and wild, staring eyes and that puzzled, haunted expression which reminds me I am facing yet another waking existence at the hands of a deity who is the divine equivalent of the office prankster, pissing themselves laughing as they hide your stapler in the MDs coat pockets. Tee hee, God! Have you knotted your tie around your head like Rambo? You have? You DICK.
Keith Richards is a year shy of seventy. This is a man who has used up so many lives and spent so long dodging death that they are considering making him into a platform game. His piratical and hedonistic approach to life as an addict was once described as “elegantly wasted”. Ugh. What a load of balls. I don’t see addicts in filthy bedsits getting high and losing control of their bowels as ‘elegantly wasted’ – yet it’s the same addiction isn’t it? The only difference is that Keith was able to take his drugs while reclining on a chaise lounge made of swan feathers and unicorn hide while having his shoulders rubbed by a devastatingly glamourous woman with her fanny out.
It’s not Keiths fault. All he did to create this kind of sensationalism about his life was take the drugs – it was the media who turned him into this solid gold junkie, like Lord Byron if he were to get off his tits and play the riff to Satisfaction.
If I sound jealous it’s because I AM. I can’t take drugs – my brain chemistry is too sensitive, and as fragile as a kittens fart – and clearly I can’t drink. Or rather I can drink – if anything I’m too fucking good at it. I can remember once sitting in a pub drinking shots and turning the glass upside down after draining it and slamming it back onto the table just like Marion Ravenwood does in Raiders of the Lost Ark and as I did it I was GENUINELY thinking;
“God, I’m cool. This is very cool.”
I know, I know. Sssssh. I am aware that I was a tit. This is why I do not drink anymore either – that, and the raging alcoholism which forced me to stop. But you don’t care about this, right? You’re probably watching the Brit Awards and having a drink every time the camera pans to Adele. And why not? You’ll get HAMMERED. You Lucky Bastards.