crackerwax

Behold! The three ages of Keef!

I reckon he died about three days after that middle photo was taken but nobody told him. Still at least he’s doing his part to prevent the youth of the world doing drugs, by hoovering them all up every where he goes.

By rights the man should be a corpse by now, not just look like one. In actual fact there’s a specialist dude called David Demko who did a thing about rock stars life expectancy based on lifestyle. Keith Richards was looking to kick the bucket around 52. This was when he was 60.

What a guy!

As far as I can tell Keith Richards was relatively normal up until about, well Christ knows, but I’m guessing he can’t always have been this nut job soaked to the eyeballs on jazz talc who dresses like a voodoo pirate.

The thing that fascinates me the most though is the dynamic between Keith and Mick. In my head it goes like this. The show ends around midnight, Mick thanks the audience and scuttles back stage to count the gate receipts and see how the merchandise is selling, meanwhile things on planet Keith are just starting.

Keith disappears back stage to a pair of waiting Italian twins, Alessandra and Isabella, snorts whatever he can come across, grabs a couple of bottles of vodka for the journey to the restaurant, where he alights, eats a bag of crisps, has some speed, then leaves to find the nearest lap dancing bar, in which he grabs six girls and gets them to put on a show that would make Caligula blush, after which he polishes off another bottle of vodka before getting the manager to get him a cab and two bottles of Jack Daniel’s to take back to his hotel, he drinks these en route.

After a bit of grout he procedes, against all the odds, to bed each of the eight girls, twice, then at around eight in the morning he eats half a bag of Skittles before passing out in a pool of someone else’s vomit, waking at nine o’clock that night by a rodie hosing him down and is wheeled on to stage to rock out and start the whole process again!

Meanwhile back at the venue Mick spent the night arguing with a roadie, trying to get him to hand over the $3 for the third piece of chicken he took from the catering wagon, pointing out that the sign (that Mick no doubt wrote himself) states two pieces for crew. He then goes to bed. With a Horlicks.

How can they co-exist? Beats me.