You’ve got to hit it when you’re hungry. We’ve been trained from babyhood to have three square meals a day, the full factory–industrial revolution idea of how you’re supposed to eat. Before then it was never like that. You’d have a little bit often, every hour. But when they had to regulate us all, “OK, mealtime!” That’s what school’s about. Forget the geography and history and mathematics, they’re teaching you how to work in a factory. When the hooter goes, you eat. For office work or even if you’re being trained to be a prime minister, it’s the same thing. It’s very bad for you to stuff all that crap in at once. Better to have a bit here, a mouthful there, every few hours a bite or two. The human body can deal with it better than shoving a whole load of crap down your gob in an hour.
I’ve been cooking bangers all my life and I only just found out from this lady on TV that you have to put bangers in a cold pan. No preheating. Preheating agitates them, that’s why they’re called bangers. Very slowly, start them off cold. And then just be prepared to have a drink and wait. And it works. It doesn’t shrivel them up; they’re plump. It’s just a matter of patience. Cooking is a matter of patience. When I was cooking Goats Head Soup, I did it very slowly.
MY RECIPE FOR BANGERS AND MASH
1. First off, find a butcher who makes his sausages fresh.
2. Fry up a mixture of onions and bacon and seasoning.
3. Get the spuds on the boil with a dash of vinegar, some chopped onions and salt (seasoning to taste). Chuck in some peas with the spuds. (Throw in some chopped carrots too, if you like.) Now we’re talking.
4. Now, you have a choice of grilling or broiling your bangers or frying. Throw them on low heat with the simmering bacon and onions (or in the cold pan, as the TV lady said, and add the onions and bacon in a bit) and let the fuckers rock gently, turning every few minutes.
5. Mash yer spuds and whatever.
6. Bangers are now fat free (as possible!).
7. Gravy if desired.
8. HP sauce, every man to his own.
My granddad Gus made the best egg and chips you’d ever believe in the world. I’m still trying to get up to the mark on that, and shepherd’s pie, which is an ongoing art. Nobody’s actually made the quintessential, absolute shepherd’s pie; they all come out different. My way of doing it has evolved over the years. The basic thing is just great ground meat and throw in some peas, some carrots, but the trick I was taught by, bless his soul, he’s gone now, Big Joe Seabrook, who was my minder, is before you spread the spuds on the top, you chop up some more onions, because the onions you’ve used to cook with the meat have been reduced, and he was damn right—it just gives you that extra je ne sais quoi.… Just a tip, folks.
Tony King, who has worked with the Stones, and with Mick, and on and off as a publicist since we began in the ’60s, records the last occasion when somebody ate my shepherd’s pie without asking.
Tony King: In Toronto, on the Steel Wheels tour, there was a shepherd’s pie delivered to the lounge and the security guys all tucked into it, and Keith arrived and he realized that someone had broken the crust ahead of him. He demanded to know the names of all the people who had eaten the shepherd’s pie. So Jo Wood’s running around going, “Did you eat the shepherd’s pie?” and everyone’s denying all knowledge, except the security people, of course, who’d had loads of it and couldn’t deny it. I denied all knowledge too, even though I’d had a piece. Keith said, “I’m not going on stage until another one is produced.” So they had to send out for another shepherd’s pie to be cooked and delivered. I had to say to Mick, “Your show is running late because Keith doesn’t want to go on stage until he gets a shepherd’s pie.” Mick said, “You can’t be serious.” And I said, “I think I can on this occasion.” There was this scene in the backstage area, where on the walkie-talkies somebody actually said, “The shepherd’s pie is in the building!” And it got carried through the lounge and dropped into Keith’s dressing room, with some HP sauce, naturally. And he just stuck a knife in it and didn’t bother eating any of it and went on stage. Just wanted to cut the crust. Ever since then he’s always had his own delivered to his dressing room so he doesn’t have to worry.
It’s now famous, my rule on the road. Nobody touches the shepherd’s pie until I’ve been in there. Don’t bust my crust, baby. It’s written into the contract. If you come into Keith Richards’s room and he’s got a shepherd’s pie on the warmer, bubbling away, if it’s still pristine, the only one that can bust the crust is me. Greedy motherfuckers, they’ll come in and just scoop up anything.
I put that sort of shit about just for fun, quite honestly. Because I very rarely eat before I go on stage. It’s the worst thing you can do, at least for me. Barely digested food in your stomach and you’ve got to head out there and do “Start Me Up” and another two hours to go. I just want it there in case I realize I haven’t eaten that day and I might need a bit of fuel. It’s just my particular metabolism; I’ve just got to have enough fuel.
When my daughter Angela married Dominic, her Dartford fiancé, in 1998, we had the party at Redlands, a big and wonderful celebration. Dominic had come to Toronto to ask my permission to marry Angela, and I kept him guessing for two weeks. Poor guy. I knew what he wanted, but he didn’t know I knew he was going to ask and he could never get an opportunity—I’d always create a diversion, or he couldn’t get it up to make his case. And after that I was going on tour. And each morning, even after Dominic had been up past dawn, Angela would say, have you asked him? and he’d say no. Finally, one dawn when the time was running out, I said, for fuck’s sake, of course you can marry her, and threw him a skull bracelet to remember the moment.
At Redlands we put marquees up all over the garden and the paddocks and they looked so good I kept them up for a week afterwards. It was the widest mixture of people you could bring together: all Angie’s friends from Dartford, the tour people, the crew, Doris’s family—people we hadn’t seen for years. There was a steel band playing to start it off, and then Bobby Keys, who Angie’s known all her life, played “Angie” as she walked down the aisle, and Lisa and Blondie sang, and Chuck Leavell played piano. Bernard Fowler read the Confirmation—a little shocked that he wasn’t asked to sing, but Angie said she loved his speaking voice. Blondie sang “The Nearness of You.” We all got up, Ronnie, Bernard, Lisa, Blondie and me, and we played and sang.
Then there was the Incident of the Spring Onions—the spring onions that were supposed to be topping the mash to go with the bangers I was making for myself. Except someone swiped them from under my nose. There were many witnesses to what happened, including Kate Moss, who will give an account of the manhunt that followed.
Kate Moss: Food of the kind he likes is one of the few comforts Keith has, whereas everything else is all over the shop. And because the hours are erratic, he makes his own food a lot of the time. That’s what he was doing the night of Angela’s wedding. It was about three in the morning. Everyone was partying, it was a beautiful evening, everyone was outside drinking, dancing, it was a big wedding, still going strong. And Patti and I were in the kitchen, and Keith was making his sausages and mash. And he had his spring onions. The sausages were on, the potatoes were boiling, I was standing by the Aga, talking to Patti, and he turned round and said, where have my spring onions gone? And we were like, what? He said, I just had them, they were just there, where have they gone? Oh God, we thought, he’s out of it. But he was so indignant, we started going through the dustbins. He was saying, they were definitely here, so we’re looking everywhere, under the tables… “I’m sure they were there.” And he was getting really angry. And we said, maybe you didn’t put them there, maybe you put them somewhere else? No, I fucking put them there. And everyone thought he was going mad. And a friend of Marlon’s walked through the door and went, Keith, what’s the matter? And Keith said, I’m looking for my fucking spring onions, and he was almost deranged, going through rubbish, and I looked up and it was like those accident scenes in slo
w motion. You think, noooooooo! Don’t do it! This guy had the spring onions behind his ears. I mean, why would you do that? To get attention, obviously, but the wrong kind of attention. And Keith looked up and saw them too. Explosion. In Redlands he’s got those sabers over the fireplace. He grabbed them both and went running off into the night, chasing this kid. Oh my God, he’s going to kill him! Patti was really worried. We all went running after him, Keith, Keith, and he came back and he was raging. The guy spent most of the night in the bushes. He came back to the party later with a balaclava on so that Keith wouldn’t recognize him.
It’s strange, given my vocation, that I have had dogs since 1964. There was Syphilis, a big wolfhound I had before Marlon was born. And Ratbag, the dog I smuggled in from America. He was in my pocket. He kept his trap shut. I gave him to Mum, and he lived with her for many, many years. I’m away for months, yet the time you spend with pups binds you forever. I now have several packs, all unknown to one another due to the size of the oceans, although I sense they scent the others on my clothes. In rough times I know I can count on canines. When the dogs and I are alone, I talk endlessly. They’re great listeners. I would probably die for one.
At home in Connecticut we have an assembly of dogs—one old golden Labrador called Pumpkin, who comes swimming with me in the sea in Turks and Caicos, and two young French bulldogs. Alexandra picked one up as a puppy and called her Etta, in honor of Etta James. Patti fell in love with her, so we bought her sister, who had been left behind in her cage in the pet shop, and called her Sugar. “Sugar on the Floor,” one of Etta James’s great records. Then there’s a famous dog—famous in the Stones back line—called Raz, short for Rasputin, a little mutt of extraordinary charisma and charm, and I’ve known a few. His history is murky—after all, he’s Russian. It seems that along with three or four hundred other strays, he was working the garbage cans of Dynamo Stadium, Moscow, when we toured there in 1998. Russia had gone into a severe economic downslide and dogs were being dumped all over town. It was a dog’s life! Somehow, while our crew was setting up the stage, he made himself noticed by the riggers and others. They took him in and he became a kind of mascot in a very short time. From the crew, he worked his way into the kitchen, and from there into the wardrobe and makeup departments. From his daily fights for food, he wasn’t looking his best (I know the feeling), yet he touched hard hearts.
When the Stones arrived for sound check, I got a pull from Chrissy Kingston, who works in the wardrobe department, who gushed about this amazing mongrel. The crew had seen him taking kickings and beatings and still coming back. They admired his relentless balls and took him in. “You really must see him,” said Chrissy. I was doing our first gig in Russia, and dogs were not on my agenda. But I knew Chrissy. Something about her intensity, her urgency, the little tears welling in her eyes, checked me. We’re all pros, and I felt that I should take her seriously. Chrissy doesn’t throw you curveballs. Theo and Alex were there, and the infallible “Oh, Dad, Dad, do see him, please” melted even this dog’s heart. I smelled a setup, but I had no defense against it. “OK, bring him in.” Within seconds Chrissy returned with the mangiest jet-black terrier I’ve ever set eyes on. A cloud of fleas surrounded him. He sat down in front of me and fixed me with a stare. I stared back. He didn’t flinch. I said, “Leave him with me. Let’s see what can be done.” Within minutes a deputation of the crew came into “Camp X-ray” (my room), big guys, all beards and tattoos, with moist eyes, thanking me. “He’s a hell of a mutt, Keith.” “Thanks, man, he got to us all.” I had no idea what I would do with him. But at least the show could go on. The mutt seemed to sense victory and licked my fingers. I was sold. Patti looked at me with love and despair. I shrugged. There was an immense operation to get him shots and papers and visas and the rest, and finally he flew into the United States, a lucky dog. He lives as czar of Connecticut, where he coexists with Pumpkin and the cat, Toaster, and the bulldogs.
I once had a mynah bird, and it wasn’t a pleasant experience. When I put music on, it would start yelling at me. It was like living with an ancient, fractious aunt. The fucker was never grateful for anything. Only animal I ever gave away. Maybe it got too stoned; there were a lot of guys smoking weed. To me it was like living with Mick in the room in a cage, always pursing its beak. I have a poor record with caged birds. I accidentally disposed of Ronnie’s pet parakeet. I thought it was a toy alarm clock that had gone wrong. It was hanging in a cage at the end of his house and the fucking thing just sat there and didn’t react to anything, except to make this repetitive squawk. So I got rid of it. Too late I realized my mistake. “Thank Christ for that” was Ronnie’s reaction. He hated that bird. I think the truth is that Ronnie’s not a real animal lover, despite being surrounded by them. He’s a horse fancier. In Ireland he has stables, four or five colts there, but you say, “Let’s go for a ride, Ron,” he won’t go near them! Likes them from a distance, especially when the horse he’s bet on is crossing the finishing line first.
So why is he living with all this shit and dung and three-legged fillies? He says it’s a Gypsy thing. Romany. In Argentina once, Bobby Keys and I were going for a ride and we roped Ronnie in for a third. They were nice quarter horses. If you haven’t ridden for a while, it does hurt your arse, without a doubt. And we went around the pampas, and Ronnie’s hanging on for fucking dear life. “But you own horses, Ronnie! I thought you loved them.” And Bobby and I are cracking up. “Here comes Geronimo. Let’s kick it up a bit.”
Connecticut is where Theo and Alex were brought up, leading as normal a life as possible, going to the local high school. Patti has many relations within striking distance. There’s my niece-in-law Melena, who’s married to Joe Sorena. We’ve made wine in their garage, ending up in that scene where you’re all in the tub with your socks off, pounding away on these grapes, going, “This is going to be the vintage.” It’s fun to do. I’ve done it in France once or twice, and there’s something about squishing grapes between your toes. We even went occasionally on “normal” holidays. There’s a fully equipped and battle-hardened Winnebago parked near my virgin tennis court to prove it. The Hansen family are very big on family reunions, and they’re also very big on camping, and they pick somewhere ludicrous like Oklahoma. I’ve only done it two or three times. But you just drive out of New York and… go to Oklahoma. On one of these trips, thank God I went along or they’d have drowned and had no fire. There was an incredible flash flood and we nearly got washed away—all the usual things, in other words, that happen on camping trips. I was never recognized because I was always drenched in rain. And my Boy Scout training came in very handy. Cut that wood! Get those tent pegs in! I’m a great fire builder. I’m not an arsonist, but I am a pyromaniac.
Entry in my notebook, 2006:
I am married to a most beautiful woman. Elegant, graceful and as down to earth as you can get. Smart, practical, caring, thoughtful and a very hot horizontal consideration. I presume that a lot of luck is involved. I must say that her practicality and logic confound me because she makes sense out of my discursive way of life. Which sometimes goes against my nomadic traits. Applying logic goes against my grain but how I appreciate it. I bow as gracefully as I can.
There was a memorable weekend safari with the children in South Africa, when I nearly got my hand bitten off by a crocodile—a close call for early retirement. We were there only two or three days, in the middle of the Voodoo Lounge tour, and we took along Bernard Fowler and Lisa Fischer. We were in a safari park where all of the employees were white former prison guards. And obviously most of the prisoners had been black. You could see it on the barman’s face when Bernard or Lisa ordered a double shot of Glenfiddich. It was hardly welcoming. Mandela had been released five years earlier. Lisa and Bernard went out to seek this moment and do their roots thing, and they came back really pissed off. All they got was blacks not welcome. Nothing seemed to have changed from the old apartheid attitudes.
One morning, we’d been up all
night and I’d been asleep about an hour and I really wasn’t ready for it, but they scooped me up and put me in the back of this open safari truck. I wasn’t in the best of moods to start with, jolting around in the back, and it wasn’t “Oh my God, it’s Africa,” it was just scrub and bush. Suddenly we come to a halt on a little side turn. Why are we stopping now? There are some rocks and a cave mouth. At that very moment, out comes my image of Mrs. God—a warthog. It’s got a mud pack all over its face and it stands there snorting steam right in front of me. This is all I need now—these tusks—and it just looks at me with its little red eyes.… It was the ugliest creature I’d ever seen, especially at that time of day. That was my first encounter with African wildlife. Mrs. God, the one you don’t want to meet. Excuse me, could I see God, please? Maybe I could come back tomorrow? Talk about coming home and getting the rolling pin. I started to see curlers and one of those old housecoats. Steaming with energy and venom at the same time. Which is wonderful to watch, but not when you’ve slept for an hour and have a terrible hangover.
Now we’re jolting down the track again, and a very nice cat, a black guy called Richard, is perched on the back of the Land Rover, spotting things, and there’s this huge pile of something, and Richard says, hey, watch this. He chops off the top of this pile, and out flies a white dove. It was elephant crap. There are these white birds that follow elephants and eat the seeds that they haven’t digested. Their feathers are covered in an oil so they’re not actually covered in crap. And they can breathe under that pile for hours and hours. In fact they eat their way out. But it was pristine, like the dove of peace, totally immaculate, as it flapped away. Next we go round this bend and there’s an elephant, big bull, right across the road. And he’s busily tearing down two trees about thirty feet tall, he’s wrapping them up together, and we stop, and he sort of gives us one look, like “I’m busy,” and he carries on ripping out these trees.
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