I had this dream the night before Keith Richards' birthday on 18th December. I was out walking along a city pavement, with my hands deep in huge pockets, looking down at my feet, confused by unrecognisable paint stained baggy trousers and badly scuffed leather slippers. When along came Keith Richards who said “hi Paul”. So I said “oh, hi Keith”. He put his arm around my shoulder, so I an arm around the small of his back. We carried on ambling. Nothing else was said until I noticed Keith looking down at my slippers, I sensed he also wondered what this was about. I offered my apologies and explained I didn’t know who’s slippers they were nor who the trousers belonged to. Without any answers, we continued walking embraced in silence.
After a timeless long while a huge Victorian pavilion not unlike laughable Brighton appeared, one long side of which sported a series of tall narrow etched glass doors with panelled wooden bottoms. Keith said “do you fancy a swift half Paul?” I replied “yeah, why not?” Finally a way in was found through two doors wide open at the very far end. We shuffled, arms still entwined into a huge ballroom with chandeliers and an intercontinental ocean of blonde maple flooring.
Immediately before us half a dozen or so circular linen clad dining tables occupied a few depressed diners all eating huge steaming plates of boiled potatoes, smelling of school canteens. A flurry of waiters straight from La Coupole clad in ankle length white waist tied aprons and white gloves waltzed stupidly around with silver platters at shoulder height, balanced on their ridiculous fingertips, just showing off.
Keith and I slowly surveyed the rest of the empty cavernous dancehall until we espied the bar at least a quarter of a mile away, running the entire width of a football pitch. We cocked our chins up slightly in respect, or fuckitness for the grandeur of the place and slid across the sprung floor hoping to make the bar before nightfall. As the vast ornate counter approached with its highly polished foot rail, it started growing in height, at least a dozen women bartenders clad in crisp white blouses buttoned to the neck and tight maroon waistcoats slowly disappearing behind the towering edifice.
By the time I said to Keith, “my shout” we were only half way up to the height of the counter. The endless row of hand pulled beer pumps we longed for on our journey were invisible now. Up until then, there were no other people at the bar. Whilst trying think what to order 5 or 6 blokes arrived jostling around us and the concentrated silence was shattered by macho pub banter and the worship of Keith. I tried shouting to one of the unseen barmaids - one leant over trying to find who was yelling at her. I raised my voice to a scream. She couldn’t hear what I said. The throng were obviously drunk and getting rowdier and rowdier. I cupped my hands either side of my mouth and yelled so loud my head split “TWO PINTS OF LAGER”. The reply was “WHAT?”
At this point Keith was hopelessly bobbling with the ugly men, their faces right in his, all yelling at him, telling him how great he was. I put my hands back deep in my pockets turned and tried to walk in a manner that would convey my displeasure with drinkless lost friend resignation. Slowly the strange slippers shuffled me towards the distant open doors and I returned to wondering who they belonged to. No one noticed me – I looked back to check. Just before I took my leave a wing collared maitre d’ came rushing up from nowhere and declared I “was never to step foot in the establishment, ever again!” My parting cry of “FUCK OFF PENGUIN” woke me up!
