ACCORDING to leaked paperwork, the Rolling Stones are demanding that all the hotels in which they stay provide extra butlers, a 24-hour bar, after-hours dry cleaning services, a plentiful supply of Marlboro cigarettes and clearly written instructions in every room on how the television works.
The message then is clear; these ageing rockers have spent so long in the platinum-branded, super-pampered section of cloud-cuckoo- land that they’ve completely lost touch with reality. “Doubtless,” you will scoff, “they also want to shower each night in the tears of an angel.”
Yes, but just for a moment put yourself in the leopardskin shoes of Keith Richards. You’ve been on stage for a couple of hours, belting out an approximation of all your best-known hits, and now it’s 11 o’clock at night and you’re in your seventies and you’re tired. It’s possible, though photographs would suggest otherwise, you are also hungry.
Well, you can’t go to a restaurant because the waiter, for a laugh, will eject some bodily fluids into your supper. And then ring a local newspaper to say that Keith Richards has just wolfed down a plateful of your — let’s be kind, let’s say — saliva. Garnished with a couple of the chef’s dingleberries.
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And there will be photographic evidence of this because every other person in the restaurant will have spent their entire evening sneaking pictures on their telephones. They may even end up with a snap of you apparently picking your nose that they will then sell for a hundred pounds.
So. Since you’re an old man and you don’t want to eat saliva or be humiliated in the newspapers for apparently picking your nose, you’ll be forced to retreat to your room to watch a bit of television. Which as we all know is now impossible in every single hotel in the world because the controls are completely unfathomable.
There will be several remotes on the bedside table that you have to match up to all of the equipment using nothing but guesswork and swearing. And eventually the television will stop playing the “Welcome Mr Ken Richard” message and will become a forest of hash accompanied by the sort of white noise the CIA uses to make its captives go mad.
While stabbing away at the wrong remote to make the volume go down, you will first of all open the lid of the DVD player and then you will turn the screen into the sort of menu you could understand only if you were a senior programmer at Microsoft. HDMI 2.0 and Aux mean nothing to a man who is a) 71 and b) drunk.
Eventually, of course, you will get the television to show some kind of moving image. And since it’s usually a woman with massive breasts talking Klingon to a completely orange man with Sylvia Berlusconi hair while foam is hosed into the shrieking audience you will give in and call for assistance.
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But when you are a member of the biggest rock band in the world, you can’t do that because the hotel staff will sell you out. But then you already knew that because the perfectly reasonable request you made for written instructions on how the television works has been leaked.
Maybe then you could do a spot of laundry. Oh no, you can’t because no one can be arsed with that form in which they ask you to count how many items you are submitting and then has a column in which they are allowed to give their number. And guess what? Yup. Their number is always lower and always tallies with the amount of things they are returning.
That’s a problem we all have but for Keith Richards things are much worse. Because the chambermaid isn’t even going to get to the lift before she’s tipped your dirty smalls into a pile, whipped out her iPhone and shown the world that you don’t wipe your bottom properly.
I’m not making this up. I am not Keith Richards but after I checked out of one hotel in Australia its management rang the newspapers and told them exactly what I’d done since I’d checked in. Some hotels won’t shop their guests to the press. But a lot do. And you can never tell which is going to do what. So you have to plan for the worst, which is why the Stones have “demanded” — newspaper talk for politely requested — special dry cleaning services.
But how come, you may be wondering, these brilliantined old stick insects can’t even make it to the tobacconist for a packet of fags? Why have they asked the management to provide a supply of Marlboros?
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Right. Fine. Let’s assume that you are in a petrol station, paying for your fuel when who should breeze in but Keith Richards himself. You’re going to stare, aren’t you? And wonder if it’d be OK to ask him for a selfie . . .
Happily, while you’re deciding, someone else will jump in first. “I’m sorry to bother you, Keith,” they will say, “but I’m your No 1 fan. I saw you once in Leeds and . . .” they will go on for some time before asking for a photograph. This will involve passing their phone to a stranger who will not know how it works, so they will take a picture after five agonising minutes of their own eye.
And now everyone in the petrol station is thinking the same thing. If Keith has demonstrated his willingness to have his picture taken, surely he won’t mind doing one more . . .
They’ve all got a back story. They’ve all got a reason for wanting a picture. They’re all No 1 fans and they’ve all got different phones that no one else can work. All of which means that Keith, who just popped out for a packet of Marlboros, is going to be 95 by the time he gets back to the broken television set in the room.
And doubtless you’re now scoffing again, pointing out that you paid for Keith’s lavish lifestyle so you’re entitled to take his picture and read about his every move in the Daily Mail.
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But wait a minute. You also paid for James Dyson’s lifestyle. But you don’t demand he comes out of the back office and gurns into your camera every time you buy a vacuum cleaner, do you?