Further to my post of July 7, not many people know that the Rolling Stones were for a time my personal property in the 1980s. As is common knowledge, their career hit a bad patch after their initial success, and their manager Andrew "Loog" Oldham decided to sell them to the highest bidder. Like a lot of collectors, I had no particular wish to flaunt my acquisition to all and sundry. I kept the band in my cellar, only bringing them out when I was anxious to get rid of particularly recalcitrant guests.
As was only to be expected, the Stones soon tired of their twilight existence. Although I explained to their leader, Mick Jagger, that they were no longer masters of their destiny and that few, if any, were clamouring for their "release", I knew it was only a matter of time before they endeavoured to make a break for it. Sure enough, they managed to escape my vigilance one moonlit night. But I was not unduly worried; I had grasped their mean, vindictive nature, and knew they would be back in search of revenge. But I was not alarmed. My infrared security system picked them up as soon as they set foot inside the grounds, and they were badly mauled by my superbly trained and immaculately turned out Doberman Pinschers before the police arrived to haul them (The Rolling Stones) away.
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