A Week with The Rolling Stones

A Week with The Rolling Stones
You can’t always get what you want… sleep-wise
       Part One – The run up
                 “Black hearted to the bone
                               Older than The Rolling Stones”
                                                           (I’M SO BAD (BABY I DON’T CARE) )


I stopped reading stuff about Lemmy, a long time ago.

There were two reasons for it, really: firstly, I figured that after all the years of leaving no stone unturned between us, anything I didn’t already – I probably don’t want to know! And, secondly – having done all my sums, I worked out there’s somewhere in the region of an 87.6% chance that at some point, in any given article, I was going to happen upon some form of ignorance or inaccuracy that would really pan-fry my pot noodle, as it were.

In the past, the way I coped with journalistic inaccuracy was exactly the same as when I heard one of Piers Morgan’s opinions… I simply shut myself in the linen cupboard, buried my face into a pile of 820 gram Waffle Weave Bath Sheets with Egyptian Combed Cotton inlay, Blended Micro-fibre with a looped Cashmere pique border edging… and spent a couple of hours primal screaming into the fluffiness until the anger and frustration left me.

It’s different these days, what, with my dodgy back, gammy knee, those things that just appear out of nowhere and before you even know what it is, it’s swelling up as if you’ve done something wrong in the 10 minutes since it plotted up, uninvited.

And don’t even get me started on all the shit you’ve had since birth and then, boom, ‘it’ just drops off for no reason and suddenly, that thing you always had but didn’t know why – now, it’s just fucking gone!

I tell you, the whole aging thing’s a fucking nightmare!

Which means the cupboards are out of bounds. One face pushing into a towel too quick… and that’s probably Goodnight Irene to one, if not both, hips and… So, you’ll be here for ever more to the replacements.


So, I steer well clear of the reading, you understand – until the other day, when I came across a few boxes of crap I was obviously hoarding for – who knows? Anyway, in one of my boxes were some bits and bobs relating to Motörhead, including a feature I must have kept for a reason. And while looking for that reason, I unknowingly browsed the text and, sure enough, I read something and my brain set off for the cupboard without a word to my head. – and it was all due to a casually dropped slanderous allegation that ‘Lem was excited about something.’

How dare they! Excited? That’s rock royalty they’re toying with there.

It’s a plain fact that never in a field of humans, was so little excitement displayed by a single individual in front of so many people so few times as it was by Lemmy Kilmister!!! And, that’s just a fact!

Don’t get me wrong – It’s not like Lem would wake up, crawl out of bed, flick the TV on and start his day off with the early evening news and a quick reminder to himself that under no circumstances would there be any excitement experienced…that’s just how it was.

And he told me why, once.

*                                                     *                                                 *

We were at a gig – not sure who, not sure where – but I am sure I liked it, because I turned to him and said something along the lines of how great the band sounded and didn’t he agree?

Well, a ‘yes’ would have been fine – fine for most people – but that really wasn’t Lem. He took me by the elbow, walked us to somewhere a little quieter and, looking me square in the good eye, said, (and I para-phrase), “When you’ve stood a few feet away from a man who is redefining the limits of both the electric guitar and its music right there in front of you – and, by the way, those limits he’s redefining… they’re the same ones you watched him define last night – well, that kind of spoils you for everyone else.”

And it did…

Jimi Hendrix saw to it that, from him on, Lem would be able to count the amount of times he got excited about anything on the working fingers of Django Reinhardt’s left hand.

And, I’m not just talking about music either – I mean life in general.


Although, there was that one time. In fact, let me tell you about Sunday February 23rd 1986