Been to London. Ain't it dirty? Even the 'posh' bits. And full of miserable looking besuited c*nts rushing about as if they've just swallowed fifty times their body weight in amphetamine sulphate. And writers, obviously.
M was at the Royal Court at a making theatre for the middle classes workshop fulfilling her 50 duties, leaving me free to don my best hat and wander the Chelsea Pensioner-riddled streets. Given that I was in the vicinity I decided to embark on a mini-rock history tour and check out some properties once frequented by some heroes of
mine. So it were off to 102 Edith Grove, where three-fifths of the Rolling Stones used to sit and shiver 'cos they couldn't afford to put the necessary funds in the electricity meter. By all accounts it was a mucky hovel in 1962-63 when Mick, Keith and Brian used to c
ome-and-go via the front door on your right. And not much has changed - on close inspection it looked a proper shit hole. But the lads done good and earned lots and lots of money and two of the three lived to tell the tale. Just around the corner, at 48 Cheyne Walk (picture left), is the rather more salubrious pad that Mick shared with Marianne Faithful and after that, as is Mick's wont, Bianca. Rather than wait to be arrested for suspicious activity and pointing my lens where it weren't wanted, I moved swiftly on to the gaff where cuddly 
Keith Richards co-habited with Anita Pallenberg from 1969-71 (that'll be 3 Cheyne Walk, pictured right). The builders were in, hence the scaffolding, and I did see the current resident head up to the front door, but I was too bashful to ask for a snoop round to see what Keef's black and purple interior decorating has been replaced with. This was the scene of many a drugs bust at the tail end of the 1960s and Keith woke up one morning to find the Chelsea Drug Squad staring back at him. Bless.
And the Stones fun didn't end there. Managed to kop sight of Brian Jones' Mk VI Vox (left), Keef's customised axe from the Voodoo Lounge tour and ye olde Bill Wyman bass, just three of dozens of classic six and four string slabs of wood that make up the Harrods' Born To Rock guitar exhibition (hell, I also saw Johnny Marr's Rickenbacker 330, Rory Gallagher's battered old Strat and a guitar signed by Jimi Hendrix after he'd swung it around at the Marquee). Lovely, it was. Well worth navigating your way through several departments full of overpriced shite if you get the chance.
Elsewhere in the capital, the 'controversial' size zeros were in town (London Fashion Week), Kylie's dresses were hanging up all pretty like (Kylie The Exhibition at the V&A) 
Simon Pegg was everywhere we turned (Hot Fuzz premiere) and I saw an actual dog actually shitting right outside the actual entrance to Tate Modern, which I think, although it might just have been a coincidence, was a fine piece of pre-publicity (albeit only witnessed by about six people) for the faeces lovin' Gilbert & George exhibition .
That's not all I did in London town (I was there really to do some Rank business, but I won't bore you with that) but fuck off, you already know too much about me. Rest assured, though, that I had fun, drank and ate too much and m'feet are killing me.
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