Ah, The Rolling Stones. Where do I start? I guess I was first made aware of them as a seven or eight year-old in the 1966-67-68 period when they started to appeal to my heightening sense that the all-conquering Beatles were goody-goodies and The Stones were proper bad boys. My developing tastes found this to be an admirable thing. Even at that age, there was a nascent feeling that if the older generation - parents, teachers and the like, even the judiciary - despised them, they must have something about them. Ironically, though, my Mother loved The Stones. Then, of course, there was the music - loud, punchy, riffy, buzzy and singalong, but not in a "she loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah.." way, but in a "he can't be a man because he doesn't smoke the same cigarettes as me" style. The Stones always had a healthy cynicism and a bit of tongue-in-cheek humour that appealed to me no end. Not only that, there was the look - the cockiness, the laddish ...
