My Christmas present to my husband Grant – a concession to his never-ending mid-life crisis – was a copy of Keith Richards’ autobiography LIFE.
After drowning in drugs and debauchery for 534 pages (it’s a great read, I’m assured), he surfaced to announce that Richards had concluded by devoting two pages to the joys of healthy living and eating.
His tastes appear to be English traditional; so particular is he about being served Shepherd’s Pie in his dressing room before a concert that it is written in as a contract rider.
In Toronto, with 35,000 fans waiting, he flatly refused to take the stage for two hours until the pie was delivered, culminating in the immortal message being relayed through the stadium security men’s walkie-talkies: ‘The Shepherd’s Pie is in the building’….’The Shepherd’s Pie is in the building.’
On another occasion, armed with a knife, Richards chases a guest around his country house estate for nicking spring onions from his kitchen and, with the certainty of a man chef, he swears that his recipe for bangers and mash is the dog’s ornaments and publishes it in full. We shall road test it and if it passes muster we shall pass it on. Otherwise, the Keith Richards Diet is probably not to be recommended.