Elderly gentleman and star of Stenna Stairlift commercials, Keith Richards (96), is in hot water having flouted the laws of the land while performing in the Northern Englandshire village of Glasgow.
Glasgow, best known for the unintelligible rantings of its inhabitants, drunken brawls and string vests, recently introduced compulsory alcohol intake legislation. Citizens and visitors alike, are now obliged to consume enough alcohol to pickle a horse before embarking on a sally through its vomit paved streets.
Richards and his fellow chanteuse chums of rock combo, The Rolling Stones, zimmered into the city this week, all set to tap some toes and dampen some seats with their twentieth anniversary farewell tour, blithely unaware of what year it was, never mind their own names.
An entourage of lackies in tow with expertise in incontinence pad changing, teeth soaking and even a lumberjack to fell any flora taller than a bush, accompanied the grandads of grunge but failed to be prepared for the aged rocker's impending fall from grace ( a 72yr old wizened hag who follows the band around the world, knitting tea cosies and smelling of wee).
Since the recent change in legislation, civic dignitaries have strictly enforced the new law, coming down hard in any vacant doorway, the night streets reverberating to the melodic tones of its citizenry as they seek to remember the words of the song about where ever it is they belong to and feebly attempting to confirm whether it is, in fact, going Roon an' roon".
It was in this climate, reminiscent of the days of Royal visits by HRH The Queen Mother and her portly sunglassed and incoherent daughter, HRH Princess Margaret, that Mr Richards was to meet his denouement.
Having lived a life of moral rectitude with ne're a word of criticism as to his life lived as role model for the young of the second half of the twentieth century, Mr Richards was wheeled onto the stage. A pot warming, a packet of P G Tips tea bags by his side and with a clink of finest bone china, all hell broke loose.
With Mick Jagger yowling into the microphone, shaking his left leg vigorously to settle the contents of his colostomy bag, the band burst into torpor as they struggled to remember whether Jack was to Flash his Tonk or Jump His Honk. Richards struggling to regain his composure raised his pinkie, falteringly reached out for his ever present cup of freshly brewed tea only for security staff to fumble in their jacket pockets for bottles of fortified wine and stagger towards the songsters, eyes rolling, arms flailing and legs turning to jelly as they sought to wrench Richard's illegal brew from his trembling digits.
"Huv u durrink shun - go on yersel' un huv a durrink " wailed the inebriated audience with tears falling from their eyes for no apparent reason and the show was over. Richards was pushed to the floor, a plastic funnel filling his gaping mouth and the drink flowed down his throat ."Wurr huvvin none o' that nonsunns heeurr" and to Glasgow, he indeed, belonged.
