When I was in my teenage years I was moved somewhat reluctantly by my family to the wasteland in the east of England known as Suffolk. And there was nothing to do. I'd heard that Bill Wyman lived near, in a manor house in a village called Gedding. So at the weekend a friend would drive me and some others and park near the house and we'd just sort of sit there playing cassettes of It's Only Rock'n'Roll and Goat's Head Soup, occasionally venturing out to carve a lapping tongue or two on a fence post. This is what we called entertainment. It was as close to The Rolling Stones as we could get.
I'd have to wait fifteen years to get closer. It was 1989 in New York and I found myself outside one of those posh hotels on the south side of Central Park----just me and about three hundred others. Apparently the Stones were about to come out. The crowd surged forward, held back by New York cops, one or two on horseback. And there was Charlie Watts. "Alright Charlie!',I shouted as he's ushered into a van with blacked out windows------no response. And there was Bill. "Alright Bill!" I shouted, somewhat lamely -------even less response. [You can't blame them for ignoring me and the three hundred others-----nine years earlier, and a mile or so to the north-west, a crazy man claiming to be a fan shot John Lennon dead.]
A few years passed until I got my chance to finally meet the man. A mate called up saying he'd won a radio phone-in competition [Q, What is the name of the lead singer in the Rolling Stones?]. The prize was two tickets to the Sticky Fingers birthday party and did I want to go? Oh, go on then. Hello??!!!
Keith Richards asked "Why would Bill Wyman leave the best band in the fucking world to open a fish-and-chip shop called Sticky Fingers?" but he knew he was being unfair. Sticky Fingers is a great American-style diner in a swanky part of London. crammed with Stones memorabilia, and we were off to the party. My mate and I turned up the street, saw rows of paparazzi and popping flashbulbs, and promptly turned straight back around. A couple of pints in the pub down the road and now we were ready to face the press.
A solitary flash greeted us as we left the confused and disappointed pressmen behind, handed our tickets to a suspicious doorman, and tottered into the celebrity strewn bash.Looked like Madame Toussaud's but with more movement. Crikey. We headed straight for the free bar. "Two marguerita's please." "Beer or wine only sir." Probably just as well. "Four Coronas and two large glasses of claret." Oh. Well that should help us get over any social embarrassment we might have.
As we became more fortified we started to mingle more freely, munching on tempura prawns, chatting with people off the tele who couldn't quite place us, and making increasingly regular and serpentine trips to the bar. And then there was Kenny Jones, drummer with the Small Faces, the Faces and the Who [how's that for a cv ?]. And he's chatting with that actor who played Jesus Christ and used to be in Doomwatch. And they're both laughing with Bill-----about five feet away. Now was my chance---I knew what I wanted to say.
"Hello Bill. Just wanted to say [fabulous party by the way] that I'm a huge fan of your solo work from the seventies. Loved Stone Alone and played Monkey Grip to death. My name's Mark by the way." "Well thanks Mark. Why don't you come and jam with me in my Suffolk mansion and then we'll go and watch Kenny play polo?"
The thing is though, I did love those albums. Especially Monkey Grip. I'm listening to it now as I type this----first time in a few years and it sounds like an old friend. Must have been a huge relief for the man to step outside the Stones where he couldn't write or get listened to and do this. Make an album of his own stuff with great musicians [Lowell George, Leon Russell for chrissakes] who turned up cos they wanted to be involved. Bill didn't even go down the safe route of doing a bluesy sub-Stones thing. A bit vaudeville, a bit New Orleans, a bit South London. And catchy. The odd slightly alarming lyric--"I wanna get me a gun. And frighten the shit out of everyone." but a lovely piece of work. Was the title really an oblique reference to Grumpy Mick? Somehow nice to think so.
But of course I never got to speak to Bill. The moment passed and things started to get a bit psychedelic . My mate had his arm round Rolf Harris, telling him tearfully , and somewhat emphatically, how moving he found Two Little Boys. I'd told someone called Elle McPherson that she should be a model and I'd told Barbara Windsor I loved her "even more than the Queen Mother". The last thing I can remember is staggering down the stairs with a huge tray of drinks and distributing it amongst the the startled kitchen staff. "Thank you all for such a splendid effort."
The last time I saw Bill was a couple of Christmasses ago as he was walking down the King's Road with Charlie Watts. Charlie was wearing an immaculate green crombie and Bill was in a leather jacket [always more of a rocker than a mod]. They looked totally happy in each other's company, oblivious to everyone gawping and nudging as they passed. I wanted to say Happy Christmas you two. And Bill, if the Stones ever get round to doing a last tour, please be part of it. It ain't the same without you. But of course I didn't sat anything and crossed the road. As I did so I'm sure I heard Bill say "There's the idiot that gave away all that booze at my party." "No",said Charlie."He's that prat that shouted out at us in New York in '89." "No" said Bill "I'm sure it's that little sod who used to carve lapping tongues on my bloody fence."
