The last taboo in pop: fat old men

Don’t worry, I’m not going to go on about Glastonbury. I wasn’t there, I never have been and, unless forced at gunpoint, I never will be. It has been a source of great comfort to discover that rock critics far more professional than I detest festivals as much as I do. My friend Andrew Mueller tells the story of his appearance on Sky News as a token anti-Glastonbury grouch, doing a two-way with some idiot in a stupid hat standing in knee-deep mud (these are his words). The festival-goer went first, and talked of community and spirit and laughter in the face of adversity. The presenter turned to Andrew and said, ‘Well, Andrew, what do you say to that?’ Andrew said, ‘I’m indoors.’

Still, it felt important, or at least necessary, to catch sight of the Rolling Stones on television, if only because you fear that every viewing might be your last. Laughing about how old the Stones are is nearly as old as they are. While Mick Jagger remains whippet-thin, like Wilfred Brambell with a decent hairdresser, it was encouraging to see Mick Taylor, who, as one writer put it, reaching for the euphemism thesaurus, has ‘filled out a bit’. It must be quite dangerous having him on stage, and not just because he might fall through it, for his guitar-playing reminded us all that the band were only any good when he was a part of them. But while Jagger’s scrawniness, and the last-minute bickering over TV rights, suggest he is still as driven and uptight as ever, Keith Richards is visibly mellowing into old age. Not only has his hair been allowed to go as grey as nature intended, but for the first time I can remember he sported what can only be described as a paunch. Always useful to rest your guitar on between tunes, of course, but even so.