Mick Jagger, wearing a bright purple suit made from Yak’s hair and a tie consisting entirely of streaky bacon, entered the top Colchester Nightclub “Scrubbers” in his eternal quest for satisfaction. The ornamental toilet brush in his hand was constructed from a pure platinum handle and the bristles formed from golden human hair lovingly extracted from Russian virgin tennis players. He wore a large ten-gallon ‘cowboy’ hat which had been sculpted by sheep-pickling ‘enfant terrible’ artist Damien Hirst using papier-mâché, the pulp of which came from first editions of famous antique books stolen from the Queen’s own Buckingham Palace library. This grand entrance, made whilst undulating, moving his wizened old face like a demented rooster and humming a medley of songs from ‘West Side Story’ was an able demonstration of the decadence and luxury in which the fossilised rocker lived his crapulent life.
Throughout the night, Jagger danced and pouted away, clapping his hands and sticking his arse in the air like an intoxicated grandfather at a wedding reception and, owing to his obscene wealth, managed to draw several admiring glances from the increasing numbers of young Essex girls gathering to watch the 104-year old vaginal Mars bar nibbler strut his ‘stuff’. Eventually, after nearly a solid hours worth of Jagger-esque ‘dancing’, Mick retired to his VIP table (the only table under which the carpet wasn’t sticky) and took deep breaths from his oxygen mask.
“Awright Mick” came a squeaky voice. Mick put his glasses on and saw two impossibly pale girls standing there wearing white lycra tops, white mini-skirts, white patent leather shoes, huge hooped earrings, stretch marks on their thighs and far too much make-up. Their hair was done in the popular “Croydon facelift” style and was pulled back so far that their eyebrows looked like little hairy caterpillars on the top of their shiny heads. “Evening ladies”, grinned Mick, clearly delighted, “Can I get you a drink? What are your names?”. The girls giggled – the slightly taller one with a squint replied, “I’m Tiffany and this ‘ere is me mate, Chantelle! We’ll ‘ave two Pernod and Blacks please!” Mick grimaced. “Surely not, ladies!” he spluttered, “No expense spared!” Mick signalled to the bored waiter, “Oi Garcon, over ‘ere – We’ll have two bottles of Asti Spumante and a packet of Benson and Hedges!”. Mick beckoned for the girls to sit down, which they did, one each side of the skeletal geriatric.
“So, Mick”, offered Tiffany, “What was it like being in The Beatles?”. “Yeah,” said Chantelle, “We liked the Beatles, they were great, nearly as good as JLS, but it was a shame when that bloke died, your mate… what was his name… John Lemon?” Mick turned pale, then purple, then orange, then the page of the book he was reading. He then decided, right there and then, to stop chasing younger women and start to date females of his own age. Excusing himself from his present company, leaving Chantelle and Tiffany to discuss how wonderful Kate and Wills’ wedding was and how much they looked up to the inspirational Katie Price whilst enjoying the complementary Asti Spumante and luxury cigarettes, Mick Jagger was then last seen entering a retirement home with a bunch of flowers, a box of diabetic chocolates and a bumper pack of tena-lady. Looks like he learned his lesson!
This all proves the old adage, if you can’t stand the heat, you obviously don’t like celebrity magazines and should peruse the other shelves in the newsagents. But not too much otherwise the bloke behind the counter will make you pay. It’s not a bloody library, you know. Thank you, come again!