I heard a Desert Island Disc repeat this morning when Bill Nighy chose it as his favourite of the eight.
Why? Because it was quintessentially English he said (or something like that). The Stones themselves are QE as far as I’m concerned, even when they’re singing about Bakersfield or Nu York Citteh.
Maybe that’s because I always think of the time I lived in a fabulous flat on the corner of Ashburn Place and Courtfield Road and the Stones themselves lived just down the street. And it was the late Sixties and I was young and could pull anybody (almost) and hadn’t begun to realise what a deeply depressing decade it was.
I met William Burroughs in Bailey’s Hotel a couple of times and the second time he chatted like he knew me. And Sean slowly pissed himself in an armchair in front of Patsy’s parents and we all pretended it wasn’t happening, and Richard wouldn’t get out of bed so we dragged him, mattress and all, into Cromwell Road and left him there. And I was living with Wendy who had the most beautiful legs I’ve ever seen, then or now, who had psoriasis when we met but it went away after we got together and I treated her badly.
I didn’t start to grow up for another twenty-odd years. And now I know what guilt feels like.
Winter; it cracks me up.
<b>12:39</b> I wrote it thinking of you, <b>Cymbers</b>.